


To Be Where You Are (So Very Far)

by bobee



Series: fly away birdie (come back home) [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five is baby, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Number Five | The Boy Gets A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy has PTSD, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Protective Allison Hargreeves, Protective Diego Hargreeves, Protective Klaus Hargreeves, Protective Luther Hargreeves, Protective Vanya Hargreeves, Recovery, Sort of Kind of, Touch-Starved Number Five | The Boy, abused five hargreeves, basically they all want to protect five ok, because I said so, can u blame them, five explores his younger mindset this time, five is hurt but hes home, here ladies gents and they's is the aftermath, i hope u enjoy, in conclusion five deserves the world, thank fuck for that, the fix it fic to the last disaster i put out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobee/pseuds/bobee
Summary: He'd thought he'd seen it all.Forty-Five years in a wasteland and two weeks saving the world, only to be taken for a year by a man guided by his own self-interest. He'd seen the horrors of what this life has to offer. It's all he's ever seen.He just hadn't known that there was one out there meant for him.(or, Number Five, the end of the end of the world, and the start of a new one.)
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & The Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy)
Series: fly away birdie (come back home) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973194
Comments: 47
Kudos: 336





	To Be Where You Are (So Very Far)

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I just wanted to say huge thank you for the support I had on the first part of this piece. I’m so glad that you all enjoyed it, and the comments were incredibly rewarding.  
> Part II is nowhere near as heavy as Part I, but I still advise to read with caution as mentions to the previous piece are present throughout the story.  
> And now, we move to The Aftermath.

**P A R T I I**

**where it all came back together**

* * *

The office is freezing.

Five can feel the chill seep in through the six-by-four windows, right in under his chin and down his chest where it settles in his heart, a place dark and frozen enough to welcome the cold home. It’s airy down his spine, tingling uncomfortably in slithers throughout the brink of his bones.

He has a cup of hot chocolate in his hands and a heavy blanket wrapped around him that he can’t help but wonder if is washed. He had requested coffee—clearly, or so he thought—but they’d given him this cheap mix of off-brand cocoa powder and hot milk. It tastes like old snowy winters during the good ol’ days.

It also tastes lumpy and stupidly sweet, with powder bubbles floated to the surface. Whoever made it hadn’t bothered with marshmallows or cream, and it blands the texture by millions. Five doesn’t even try drinking it, but it does keep his hands warm.

He’s been left alone the past fifteen minutes and he’s not sure what he’s waiting for. The clock ticks and tocks loudly beside the ceiling fan, which rotates air right down onto Five’s face that sure as hell doesn’t help with the coolness in here.

The desk before him contains nothing but a paperweight, a stapler and a small pen holder. Everything else has been cleared away, emptied like the black chair that seems to stare blankly at him. Five stares blankly back.

He’s feeling a lot of things right now. His head is swamped, befuddled, scared and a little bit confused. The last hour of his life is running playback in his mind on repeat, and he can’t believe he’s _here_.

He remembers running so fast that his breath got caught in his throat and sent him sprawling across the sidewalk, where a kind, _kind_ old couple gentled him to his feet. They’d only needed barely Five’s gasps and rattled, demented demeanour to call the police—a jumbled, incoherent story spilling out of him all the while.

God, he’d been so scared. He hadn’t felt safe for a second. He’d wanted _home, home, home._

And now he’s here, stuck in the police station with a tatty blanket and a shitty hot chocolate that he didn’t even ask for. Nobody has come in to speak to him yet, not since he babbled out his name and the academy emergency home number, body shaking and eye twitching and fingertips dancing.

Jesus, this is so shit.

He picks at his nails in a flare of impatience, huffing out a tangy sigh and swinging his head back, resting on the back of the chair with his eyes closed. Why did they just _leave_ him in here? Can’t they tell he’s been alone long enough?

Far too long, he thinks. Far, far too long.

He hasn’t really had the time to process what’s going on. The past while has been rapidly overwhelming, one thing leading to the next and leaving his brain six steps back and lost at square one. He’s still trying to wrap himself around the fact he’s not scrubbing the window anymore, let alone actually being _safe_ inside a police station. Christ, is he really?

The clock still ticks. It seems to get louder by the minute, but Five knows that’s just it getting wedged under his skin. That’s one thing he can tell false from reality, at least. Most others, he’s not sure.

He chews his lip. Glances around. He debates on abandoning his seat in here to just get going on wandering down the station himself—but that spirit inside him that would’ve done exactly that was broken a long time ago. The Five that would’ve done so without a care of the consequences isn’t the Five that’s sitting in this wooden chair now.

And that’s scary. That’s really, really scary.

Even now just sitting here, struck-dumbed and in awe of his own escape, and Five is still pondering over the fact he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Pfft. Like it matters. He doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

He learnt that some time back.

It’s a moment more before the silence is corrupted by an officer stepping quietly into the room, closing the door carefully behind her. She looks middle-ages, dark haired and eyed. Her nose is slightly crooked, and Five wonders if it’s natural or if something happened to her for it to be bent that way.

“Hello there, Five,” she says, sitting opposite him with a leather black book in her hands. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and her fingers are laced together. Everything about her is prim and serious, the lines on her forehead drawn to the creases in the inbetweens of her brows. 

And then she smiles, and everything is light and breathable again. “How are you feeling?”

Five has a horrible urge to snort. He doesn’t, and adjusts himself in his seat. “Honestly?”

“As honest as you can,” she nods, eyes softened.

“Like shit.”

“I assumed as much,” she winks at him, and something about the natural manner eases something in Five’s chest. He much prefers this playfulness rather than the strict questioning he’d gotten earlier. Fuck, he needs a break.

“Can you explain why that is?” She asks him. Five knows that she’s simply doing her job, and she’s dealt with plenty of people like him before. That the kind eyes boring into his soul is merely a tactic to get him to relax and open up, but that doesn’t make it feel any less personal. She’s good at her job, but not good enough.

“Does it need an explanation?” He mutters, picking at the scabs on his arms beneath the blanket. He disbanded the hot chocolate sometime whenever, and he misses the warmth in his fingers. “I’m sure it’s very self-explanatory.”

“Generally, yes,” the officer admits, clicking her pen. “But in these cases we like to get an insight of the victims personal perception of the events. Do you think you could do that, for me?”

“I just told you I feel like shit.”

“Can you go into further depth of that?”

“No. I don’t want to.” Five nearly winces at how childish that sounds. Maybe not so much the statement itself, but the tone of his voice. He sounds so _whiny_.

“That’s alright, I won’t force you if you’re uncomfortable,” she says, gently. She places the pen down on the desk and examines him for a while. She does it in a way that’s clearly meant to be subtle, but Five is too calculatively equipped for that.

“Why are you staring at me?” He says. He actually tries not to sound accusing, but it comes off as such. She doesn’t seem to mind, smiling and bowing her head in almost respect.

“If we’re both going to be honest here, I guess I’ll say I was trying to read you.”

“Are you psychic?” Five asks. He’s being cheeky, now, and he knows it, but he’s in no mood to be stared down and picked apart by an officer that will forget about him as soon as he leaves. He doesn’t like feeling vulnerable under eyes much too soft in comparison to his own.

“I’m not, but I wish I was,” she tells him.

“Well, staring at my face isn’t going to answer all your questions,” Five grumbles, pulling the blanket tighter around him.

She smiles a little, the corners of her mouth tugging up before she smooths her expression. “Neither does asking you, will it?”

 _Touché, lady,_ he thinks, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. _Touché._

“I’m only requested to fill in a brief report,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “But if you don’t want to answer anything yet, that’s completely fine. I understand. Your family shouldn’t be too long, now, anyway. I can imagine you’re excited to see them?”

Five feels his throat close over, his heart catch and tie and seize up in his chest. His family is coming. _His family is coming._

“Uh—yeah,” he says, gaze dropping to the floor. He pulls his legs up, feet onto the chair as he curls himself up into a tight ball, resting his chin on his knees. “Yeah. Can’t wait.”

“It’s been a while,” she murmurs, obviously basing off the small details of information Five had sputtered out earlier. “A year, was it?”

 _Clever_. “Maybe.”

“Are you nervous about seeing them again?”

Now that’s a question to think about. Is he nervous? He is feeling butterflies in the pits of his stomach, butterflies different to the stabs of fear Robert had given him daily. This doesn’t feel like needles rattling around in upside-down cages, poking him where the wounds are open. This feels like not being able to sleep the night before something, tossing and turning in bed due to swells of anxiousness, swabs of excitement. 

Maybe he is nervous. They never did come for him, after all. He’s not sure if they gave up or if he was just that hard to find. 

Maybe both.

He shrugs. “Dunno.”

“You have a lot of siblings, don’t you? How many?” She keeps the questions coming, keeping him occupied, distracted. Helping the time pass by. Five is somewhat a little grateful.

“Five.”

“What are their names?”

Five stutters on that one. “Um—Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus and Vanya.” _Ben._ Except, Ben’s dead. He decides not to mention that one.

“Those are very interesting names,” the officer says, amused. “Are they after something?”

“No,” Five says, rather bluntly. “My mom named us because Dad didn’t care enough to call us by anything other than numbers. I was Number Five, by the way. If you couldn’t tell.”

She looks stricken, for a second, and Five feels indulgent in his triumph. Finally, he’s caught her off guard. He likes it much more this way—having the upper hand.

“Numbers?” She asks, just as there’s a sturdy knock on the door. Another officer steps in, and he is short and stout and looks like a classic mall-cop, but he smiles all teeth and invites himself in.

He looks at Five. “You’ve got people here to see you, kid.”

_They’re here._

Five is glued to his seat for a second, the world washing up under the chair-stoppers. He feels a blood rush all at once, fingers gripping themselves as his legs tremble just a bit. This doesn’t even feel real. 

“You ready, buddy?” The other officer asks, holding the door open, and Five slowly gathers himself to a stand.

And from there, he allows himself to be led out of the room, the world a hazy painting too glossed to be coherent. 

But beautiful, nonetheless.

—

  
  


Five is outside the office for two seconds before he hears a quiet gasp and a seat creaking as if someone had risen from it.

He’s almost hesitant in looking up, peeking out from behind the male officer with worn-out eyes that have only slights of sparks left in their eagerness. The curiosity still lingers, as does the hope.

So does their light, supposedly, as they glow when they fall upon his sister who he’d begun to think he’d never see again. For the second time around. Third, actually. Jesus, he can’t even keep count.

Allison looks so much more put together than he feels. Classy as always, hair styled to utmost precision. Everything seems to be in perfect place—and then there’s her eyes. 

Her eyes are big and brown and red rimmed in swells. They look bewildered, a little frigid and strikingly sympathetic. Allison’s eyes were always more honest than her mouth. Always had been, always will be.

They are a dead giveaway in this situation. They crinkle and flicker in shine as soon as they meet Five’s, her hand coming up to cover her lips. They waver with the tears that are iridescent on her lashes, and Five watches steadily as her whole face falls apart.

Another officer is by her side, holding a cup of what seems to be water, and speaking quietly to her. Soothing, gentle, reassuring. Allison doesn’t seem to even hear her as she takes in Five’s ragged state, bone-weary and direly in need of love.

He can’t even think of what to say when he steps into place in front of her. “Hi, Allison.”

She turns away, holding her breath and shutting her eyes in an act of regaining self composure. She exhales deeply, pursing her lips as she reopens her eyes. Her arms are crossed, and Five wonders if that’s a stance of defensiveness rather than her usual, unimpressed attitude.

“Five,” she says, and at last she smiles, small and wobbly but very much there. She doesn’t reach out to hug him, she looks too unsure, but a hand involuntary lifts to tuck a stray away stand of hair behind his ear. “ _Five_.”

He turns his head to almost touch her soft palm, breathing deeply. It’s Allison. She’s here. She’s really, truly here.

The hand drops and comes back up in its previous fold, and Five shoves his own in his pockets and rocks on his heels. They’ve been left alone outside the office, given a moment of privacy to reconnect after so long.

“How are you?” Allison whispers. She steps only a little closer, as if in an internal battle with herself on what to do, what to say. Five wishes she could read minds too, because his own brazed demeanour doesn’t seem to be giving off a ‘hug me’ vibe. He’s not sure if that’s intentional or not. He doesn’t even know _what_ he wants.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, digging his foot into the floor. He stares at it, feeling suddenly stupidly shy and awkward. She doesn’t know what to say, and neither does he. What do you say, in situations like this? What’s there to be said?

The words are unspoken between them, uncommunicative without the locks of their eyes. Five’s have shifted elsewhere, avoiding her piercing ones. He knows what they would ask. _Where were you? Why did you go? Why did you leave us?_

He’s not sure if she would pick up on his own burning questions. _Why didn't you come look for me? Where were_ _you_ _?_

“I thought,” Allison shakes her head, rolling her eyes impatiently at herself. “I thought you weren’t—I thought we wouldn’t see you again.”

“I thought the same,” Five replies, monotonously. He’s feeling a little bit bitter. At who, or what, is undeciphered.

She swallows, eyes flickering down and back up again. “Where _were_ you, all this time?”

He can’t look at her when he answers. “Somebody’s basement.”

He can hear the hitch in her breath, the stutter in her throat. He refuses to meet her gaze this time around, green-eyes angry and fierce in their grazing on the floor. He toes at the navy carpeting, wondering suddenly if she’s going to want anything to do with him now. 

“Somebody’s—what? _Basement?_ ” She says, and sounds like she regrets it as soon as she does. Then she sighs, drawn out and heavy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry let’s just—let’s just get you home.”

“Yeah, basement,” Five says, without moving an inch. He ignores her open arm gesture into guiding him forward, rooted to his spot. “I didn’t fuck off to the future this time. I was here. Stuck in my own timeline. Stupid, huh?”

Everything about her seems to crumble at that. “No, no, Five. God, that’s not—that’s not stupid—whatever happened wasn’t your fault, okay? You can’t—it wasn’t your fault.” Her hands finally find their way into cupping his face, so light and gentle and warm on his cheeks, a touch so devoted and kind and lovely, Five doesn’t know what to do with himself. “You understand? _Not your fault._ ”

Five shakes his head, frustration numbing his insides. “Sure.”

She doesn’t get the chance to reply to that, as they are interrupted by the return of the two officers, who look apologetic at their own arrival. “We’re sorry for interrupting, but we need to bring Five in for a few questions, if that’s alright?”

Five shrugs. He’s hardly bothered to answer, and he’s sure lifting a shoulder is enough. He sneaks a glance at his sister, who has removed her hands from his face and is now running soft fingers through his hair. “That's okay, Five?” She confirms. 

He nods this time. He’s sick of being here, and he figures the faster he grits out his story, the better. He looks around again, eyes narrowing when they fall upon the male officer with the toothy smile. “You said there were _people_ here to see me,” he snarls.

The officer looks a little taken aback. “So I did.”

“There’s _one_ person here,” Five continues to bite, turning to Allison with slow furies of rage wallowing up the sticks of his legs. “Where are the others?” He’s being irrational, he knows, but he can’t help but feel—what, embarrassed at the thought of the rest of his siblings being too preoccupied to turn up for him? Had they better things to do? Is that it?

“They’re coming, Five,” Allison says, patiently. She leans down to really get a proper look at him. “Luther will be here any minute. Vanya is in a cab on her way here now. The others will come, alright?”

He doesn’t ask about Diego or Klaus. She didn’t mention them for a reason, he thinks.

He doesn’t answer, and follows the officers into the room.

—

“If you step _one_ foot closer I will _shove_ your face into a goddamn blender!”

“Sir, I understand that this is traumatic but it's a procedure. I need you to remove that hoodie, and if you do not we will have to remove it _for_ you.”

_Remove it for you._

_If you don’t take them off, I will take them off for you._

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Five growls, backed into a corner. His hands are curled into the tightest of fists and he’s ready to fight the next person within a six foot radius. 

So, the interview hadn’t gone down well.

“I really need you to cooperate,” Detective Farrell says. Detective Farrell can go fuck herself, Five thinks. He’s not taking off anything.

He’d been asked careful question after careful question, and he’d answered as bluntly as possible. He’d said what they required, explained what they needed, and yet that still seems to have been the wrong decision.

He hadn’t gone into much detail, partly because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, and partly because he couldn’t stand the thought of making Allison hurt more than she already was. _He_ was hurting her. His story was hurting her. He’d wanted to protect her from his own horrors—something nobody had ever done for him.

And so he’d said what he’d said, blank and dull and effortless in his seat. He regrets a lot of it, now.

“Five,” Farrell says. She’s large, larger than him, but Five is all teeth-bared and knees bent and prepared to tear her to shreds. “This will be easier for everyone if you remove your hoodie.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Five spits. It’s the truth.

She sighs.

And then he’s held down by cutting cuffs at his wrists as they scissor up his back, and he fights and thrashes and screams his head off, he calls for Allison and he kicks out with idle legs that reach nowhere as they photograph his purpled-greened skin and neck, and then he cries and cries and cries.

—

  
  


They bring him to a hospital. 

He doesn’t speak to anyone on the way. The officers attempt feeble conversation in the car and Five tells them to fuck off. Allison tries to hold his hand and he shoves them under his thighs. He’s angry, now. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody.

He’s taken down a children’s ward that has walls pretty enough that he stops to admire. It’s all painted giraffes and elephants and leopards in the Safari, polka-dots and hand-prints and splashes of clumsy colours dotted in careless collision. 

Streaks of green paint lace from bottom-up, grassy figures strewn across the downside where the animals appear to lay. Five almost wants to touch it. Trace his fingers across their crafty eyes; their peeling flesh. In fact he stares for so long Allison has to tug gently on his elbow to encourage him along.

He doesn’t want to. He wants to stay with the animals.

He follows mutely, tight-lipped and frowning behind her. If he’d the energy he would’ve had half the mind to grumble under his breath, but even that seems to be a task too strong for him. He’s too tired.

Too damn tired.

He’s brought to a private room, where he’s given a hospital gown lengthy enough it falls past his knees. His own—Roberts—clothes are taken in for evidence, investigation, and he’s told to wait with Allison in the room for a little while until he’s tended to by nurses.

And then they are left alone again. Five can hardly look at her.

She sits on a chair perched next to the bed, legs crossed over one another and hands locked on her knees. She studies him carefully before speaking. 

“What’s going on in there?” She makes a gesture of tapping the side of her head to mimic his mind.

He glares at the sheets. “I didn’t realise you were my therapist.”

“I’m not,” she answers without a change of tone. “I’m your sister. And I care about you. That means caring about how you’re feeling, too.”

He turns away. “Fine.”

“Obviously not fine, Five,” she sighs. “The furthest _from_ fine, probably.”

“Can we not?” Five finally faces her, hoping his expression comes across as earnest as he feels. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“. . . If you’re sure,” she says, after hesitating, nodding and backing off. She isn’t accusatory, or critical or judgemental. She isn’t pushy or suggestive or persistent in receiving an answer. She simply lets him be; and Five is grateful for that.

He’d forgotten what she was like, really. But then again, had he ever really known her in the first place? A month isn’t exactly a lot of time to get to know someone. Especially a someone who’s version of them you’ve known from forty-five years ago—a child version. Allison as a child was as sharp as she is now, just as kind and sweet with simple slips of sour. She was confident and charismatic and impressive in plenty, and even in the short time Five had known the grown-up her he’d learnt that she certainly hadn’t lost her charm.

That’s a very special thing, he thinks. Good things like that can be lost in time. Warped and altered in new realities that seem too superficial to be real, a token of one chewed from the molars and spat out on hard ground in a world they weren’t made for.

In a world nobody was made for.

Five doesn’t have much to say, but he spends his time looking at his sister. A small part of him craves her hold, the softness of those hands so delicate on his face. As if he were a treasure too golden to be touched, a prized possession; a trophy too valuable to risk being broken. 

It’s a shame Robert hadn’t seen him that way.

Allison clears her throat. She’s looking right at him, now. “Could I hold your hand?” She asks him.

He stumbles over himself, fumbling over his words as he registers what she’s said, addressing it with great difficulty. “You—can you—what?”

“Can I hold your hand?” 

Five stares at her. He stares at her again. He keeps staring.

His fingers twitch on the sheets. Gravitate towards hers. He hasn’t held someone’s hand in a long, long time. He thinks the last person had been Dolores, and although her mere presence had been a brilliant comfort to him; her touch had been colder and less tender than his.

Then he thinks of the last person he touched, and the way it had been, and he feels disgusted with himself. Feeling his neck burn, he pulls his hand back and shoves it out of reach.

“No.” He says, and that’s that.

  
  


—

  
  


They want to examine him.

Five is furious. He’s reluctant, adamant that they don’t go near him. He refuses to be touched in any way, and he screams at any indication of such being made towards him. It’s mostly out of stubbornness rather than fear, but that ugliness in the bottom of his stomach hasn’t gone away since he’s arrived.

He’s not fearless. He wishes he were, but he’s human. And he has his weaknesses.

Allison reasons with the doctors. Five mutters at her to rumour them into taking a hike and she flat out ignores him. He does grumble at that.

The doctors are very gentle with him. They tell him they want to run a few tests and examine the areas he’d been botched by Robert. They explain why, and how, and Five thinks the entire thing is so ridiculous he almost laughs at them. 

It’s hysteria, really. Mania at this stage. He just wants to go home. God, why won’t they let him go home?

They want to check his injuries, identify what needs to be done in order to stabilise the worst of it and then begin on healing him. He wants to tell them to shove it up where it doesn’t shine because he’s quite capable of doing all that himself, if they hadn’t noticed. Stitching up his wounds isn’t going to take a medical expert, in his eyes.

After all, he’s done it before.

He listens to them rattle on with muffled ears, tuning them out as he twists himself into his pillow. This is all useless, to him. 

Entirely useless.

They seem to notice his disinterest, although it’s appearance may be that of discomfort and instability—to them he is a victim, a traumatised little boy who had too much taken from him to have anything left to give. 

(Isn’t that what he is?)

He hates this. He hates being here. He hates Allison’s worried glances and the doctors soothing voices and the loitering smell of disinfectant and shoeshine and polish.

And so, he reasons. The sooner they get this over with, the better. 

—

  
  


Five is examined. He’s also treated. He’s bitter about it. 

They check his swollen reddy neck, his back with only taints and tithers of white skin left adrift the darkened markings. They are kind to him, they ask instead of tell, and only place their gloved fingers anywhere Five gives them permission to. It’s a big change in dominicity, Five hasn’t been in this much control since ages.

Ages and ages and ages.

They ask him about the wounds and how he’d gotten them, and Five struggles in his answering as he relives the moments—the harshness of Roberts words and voice and unforgiving fingers forging into his skin. The crude pinches of thorned nails ripe on his flesh. Robert had been dirty. 

“He hit me all the time,” Five tells them. “He chained me up, drugged me to _fuck_ , cracked my ribs, ripped out my hair, he touched—” and then he stops. 

Recalcutes. Renanalyses. Closes his eyes. Breathes. He doesn’t want to speak on that. He doesn’t want to speak at all. 

“I’m done talking,” he says, with no room open for discussion. 

The doctors are even almost impossibly softer with him. “He touched you where, Five?”

Five feels his mouth go dry. His tongue laps up the last bits of saliva as it sickles and hardens into sandpaper, throat suddenly dusty and plastered in thick coats of powdered rust.

“Nowhere,” he turns his head away. He sounds hoarse. “Nowhere I—I didn’t mean that.”

Doctor Landea (lan-day-ah, which Five thinks is strange) had been the first to speak, and the only one at that so far. He is kind; Five doesn’t have a problem with him, but unfortunately it’s his job to push and Five doesn’t do well with pushing.

“Where, Five? We need you to tell us the truth,” Landea says. Rightfully so, but it’s still unpleasant, and Five’s gut churns uncomfortably in something of a blended acetone of nervousness and fury.

“I just told you it,” he says.

Landea closes his eyes for a moment, letting out barely a fracture of a sigh. “Five, this may be understandably very uncomfortable for you, but we must know the truth,” he says, patiently. “And we must act quickly. We _did_ find evidence of sexual assault during your examination, and given this is an ongoing investigation, we need your consent to run a rape kit.”

Five is appalled. “A _what_? That wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“It’s alright Five,” Landea is quick to soothe him, keeping quiet and calm as Five feels his heart pick up its pace frantically. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of here. You have our full support.”

“No, no you don’t understand—” Five tries to steady his heart rate, clenching his fists in effort to ground himself. “—That’s not what happened he—he never did that!”

“Five,” Landea murmurs, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “Five, it’s okay. You don’t have to protect him. You’re not in any trouble.”

“ _No—”_ and Five is beyond aggravated now, teeth gritting in great gripes of frustration as his toes curl in angered despair. “Just shut up and _listen_ to me, alright? You’ve got it all wrong!”

He sounds hysterical and paranoid and pathetic, he knows, but he can’t— _won’t_ —have the others know what Robert had done to him. They couldn’t know. They shouldn’t know. 

And they never ever will know.

“Five, this is a safe space,” Landea presses pacifyingly, face mellowed into engrossed concern. “If you don’t want to, that’s completely fine, but there was bleeding, bruising, damage on the inner walls . . . you understand what that looks like?”

“He didn’t.” Five doesn’t falter, holding himself with shockingly still composure. He stares blankly at the wall ahead of him, refusing to waver under their gazes. That’s his final answer and it’s all they’re getting.

Doctor Landea sighs heavily. “Alright, kid. I’ll call Allison back in here for a moment while we discuss outside, okay?”

Five doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

Allison seats herself opposite him without a word a few minutes after the doctors take their leave, eyebrows dipped in creasing worry as she stares at where he’s sat on the examination table. He swings his legs rhythmically, palms flat out beside him as he looks everywhere but her.

“Hey,” she murmurs, reaching over to place a hand on his knee. He’s startled into stopping his movement, turning his head sharply to face her. It takes a second of a glare and a moment's hesitation before he breathes again. Just his knee.

“Hi,” he says back. It comes out kind of croaky and he wants to die.

“The doctors told me what happened in here,” she says. Trust Allison to get straight to the point. She’s gone all motherly, and it’s something Five really hadn’t noticed how much he’d missed until now. Missed and despised at the same time.

“Okay,” he says. He’s not trying to be smart; he just doesn’t know what to say.

“They um,” Allison swallows thickly and Five knows what’s coming. “They told me about the, um, the . . . the assault.”

“ _Alleged_ assault,” he corrects her harshly, turning away again. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I think they do,” Allison says, squeezing his knee. Something about the entire gesture brings irritating tears climbing up the vines of Five’s throat. He feels them knot and clog, and his head drops to his feet. 

“They don’t,” he argues, but it’s uttered in mostly a mumble and he’s much less confident this time. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Allison insists, and her thumb is starting to rub soothing circles on his knee. “But—for evidence sake, Five. Please. For yourself. You deserve jus—“

“I deserve _nothing_ ,” Five cuts in with a sharp snarl, eyes narrowed dangerously as he pulls his leg out of her reach. He leans forward on the table, darkly mirroring her shocked expression. “Hear that? _Nothing._ They’re all so full of shit, Allison. I was there. I know what happened. I wouldn’t have _let_ that happen. How weak do you take me for?” He laughs cruelly, an unhappy sound that lingers in the room far longer after its shed. 

“It’s not about being _weak_ Five,” Allison protests, leaning forward as well. She isn’t afraid of him. She never has been. “Things like that can happen way beyond your control. I mean, it’s no secret that something must’ve been done to your powers this whole time, right? And you’re—you’re trapped in this teenage body that’s so _small_ and—”

“Allison.” Five sounds borderline murderous, now. “Stop.”

“But whatever happened wasn’t your _fault_ ,” she doesn’t stop. She just keeps on going. “You have to understand that. And if you do and you still don’t want to tell the truth . . . why are you protecting him?”

“ _Protecting_ him?” Five yells suddenly, overcome with angered flustery. “You think I’m protecting _him_? The backwards _lunatic_ that locked me in his basement for a year? Are you _braindead_?”

Allison jerks back, stilling. 

Five carries on, in an angry rampant with the dam unleashed, the floodgates of deep-rooted hot-waves rushing out in fury. “You think I care about him enough to _protect_ him? I spend forty-five damn years in an apocalypse grieving for the family _I_ failed to save, only to come back to fail them again—the only _goddamn_ people I care about, and then I scatter them all around Dallas in the fucking sixties because I screwed up yet again, where I assassinate an _entire_ board of directors just to get some stupid briefcase to get us home, and you think I would waste my fucking time trying to protect a piece of _shit_ that did nothing but _ruin me?”_

He’s panting by the end, all wild-eyes and caged heavy breaths. He’s shaking, too. 

Allison stares at him, her own glistening. Fuck, he’s after making her cry. _Again_.

He doesn’t apologise. He thinks he should. For shouting at her, at least. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, to lose his temper. He finds that when he opens his mouth nothing comes out, so he presses his lips together in a firm line as he evens himself out. He’ll get to it.

Allison doesn’t try to touch him. She drops her head in a small nod, looking very much like she has no idea how to respond to that. Five doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t expect her to say anything at all, as he stares at the wall ahead of him.

He’s proven wrong, of course. “You didn’t fail us, Five. I don’t—I’m not sure if what I’m saying is registering with you or if you’re even _listening_ but—you didn’t fail us. I promise.”

Five keeps staring.

—

  
  


He does the rape kit.

He asks Allison to stay with him and then regrets it as soon as he does, but she smiles and nods and does that hair scratching thing and Five is momentarily soothed.

A female nurse is brought in under his expected request, and she is sweet and forbearing and radiates warmth like the hot cotton kind. She explains the process in a gentle manner, running through a list of steps with the promise of being as quick as possible.

Five grits his teeth hard as she does, clenching his jaw tight as he fists at the sheets. A hand comes down to curl over his, and this time he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t look; but he doesn’t pull away.

When the exam starts, he finds his fingers entwining with Allison’s on a strange reflex, grasping onto her with such a firm-trembled grip her hand shakes, too. He’s humiliated, really, cheeks flushed in embarrassment and scratchy all over. He hates feeling this _exposed_.

“Okay Five, I’m going to start with some really easy questions, okay? Only answer best what you can, and if you can’t that’s perfectly okay,” the nurse says gently. 

Five barely manages a nod, trying to avert his focus onto Allison’s palm in his own. It’s warm. Comforting. A mother’s hold.

The questions are not as easy as he’d thought. In fact, they are unbearably hard to answer. _Were you penetrated anally?_ Yes _. Were you penetrated orally?_ No. _Was a condom used?_ No.

It’s incredibly difficult to spit out those simple words, yes and no. He squeezes Allison’s fingers tightly to still both of their tremors, but neither of their quiverings can be disguised.

They ask him how often Robert had assaulted him, if there had been foreplay, toys or other sexual conducts. Five could only about manage to answer, wanting nothing more than to hide his face in the crook of his elbow and blink to the other end of the world.

He doesn’t have that choice, unfortunately, and he’s forced to stay here where he is, red-faced and ashamed. The discomfort is unalike anything Robert or the apocalypses had ever given him, and he lies there in great distress as the ripples of mortification steam up his neck.

The physical exam is far worse. Nothing could prepare him for the swabs coiling over all the bruises, every mark, down where he’d been torn and unclean and bloodied open and raw. The internal swabs are a split second, but to Five it may as well have been the moon shattering down in spitfires across the universe. 

That’s the part that gets him to cry. And he really, really hates it.

Allison murmurs praises to him the entire time, wincing when a new injury or cut on his body is found. She doesn’t let go once, and traces her finger across Five’s knuckles in a feathery touch to calm him.

He chews on his bottom lip as tears leak out the crows feet of his eyes, wobbly droplets as unstable as he feels. The nurse is a darling, whispering to him and leaving all his options open. She doesn’t go a step farther than she has to and soon enough, it’s over.

And Five feels worthless.

  
  


—

  
  


“Luther, oh my god!” Allison shoots up from her seat.

Five’s head turns so sharply it’s a wonder it doesn’t snap right off his shoulders. Sure enough Luther is in the doorway of the hospital room, looking tall and big and awkward as he always did. He smiles when Five’s eyes find his, and appears to attempt to right himself out.

He steps inside the room, cautious and weary, watching as not to bump into anything. He looks good, Five thinks. Still weirdly uncomfortable and meek-faced and tall, but his hair is fluffy and he’s all fresh looking.

“Hey, Five,” he says, uncrossing his arms. He lets them hang loose by his side as he falls into the seat next to Allison, where she reaches over to squeeze his upper arm before letting her hand slip to her lap. 

Five stares at him for a while. “Luther,” is all he says. 

He’s still exhausted and pathetically weepy after the exam, and he has his eyes hardened in natural defence to conceal their redness. It doesn’t do much, anyone with sight could tell he’d been crying; but his expression is enough to warn not to say a word about it.

“How are you doing?” Luther asks, leaning forward. Five keeps staring. 

“Fine.”

This interaction feels bitterly like their encounter after Five had returned from the apocalypse the first time around—cold and unsympathetic and monotonous, like it’s formally scripted. Five aches unknowingly for warmth.

Luther swallows and nods, a replica of Allison’s previous awkwardness. The two of them sit there and catch each other’s eyes when they think Five isn’t watching. He doesn’t care. He’s used to being the referenced one in shared looks between his siblings.

He burrows further into the sheets. Tucks himself away. 

He hears his brother and sister engage in small murmured conversation, but it soon fizzles out into nothingness just as he does.

And then he’s swallowed by the darkness.

  
  


—

  
  


He wakes up only an hour later. Of course he hadn’t been able to sleep long. He hadn’t expected to.

It’s still just Luther and Allison, side by side as the day gradually dips into night. Five is still incredibly overwhelmed.

“Where is everyone?” He asks, as soon as the world unblurs and he’s coherent enough to speak.

“On their way,” Allison assures him, pointing to a trolley with a tray of food left beside his bed. “You should eat.”

He ignores it entirely, persistent in his questioning. “ _Where?_ Why aren’t they here yet? What’s taking them so long?”

“Diego is coming from out of the city,” Allison says, after a slight hesitation. “Vanya, too.”

“And Klaus?”

“Klaus is—being Klaus,” Luther says, sheepishly, and Five is suddenly struck-gutted remembering that his siblings had lives without him. Moved on, without him. 

It hurts, a little bit. A lot actually.

He’s not sure why it does.

“Oh,” he says. 

He starts staring again.

  
  


—

  
  


“Well hey, brother-o-mine! How’s it hanging?”

Five cracks open an eye. Blinks drowsily. Heavy-lidded and dry-lipped, he unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, lathering himself in scrounged up spit to disperse in his gums.

He’s all over the place for a minute as he settles back into the land of the living—where Klaus is standing right in front of him and much too close to his face, grinning.

“Gah—Klaus! Ever heard of _space_?” Five sits up with a growl, shoving his brother away from him. “And stop _smiling_ at me like that, you creep.”

“Well I _never_ ,” Klaus widens his wolfish grin, turning over a shoulder to glance at Allison and Luther. “He hasn’t changed a bit!”

That’s a far stretch, really, but nobody argues on that statement. The truth of it hangs heavily in the air, and the air it stays. 

Klaus looks ridiculous. He’s wearing a maroon fox-fur jacket with a mustard-yellow scarf tossed over his shoulder. Classic leather pants hug his hips and when Five looks down he sees a pair of silvered, sparkled sneakers. 

Typical.

“Where did you come from? The circus?” He grumbles, sitting back into his pillows. Allison muffles a snort behind the back of her hand and Luther doesn’t even suppress a smile.

Klaus winks at him. “Sure thing. Struttin’ my stuff down the clown walk, if you will.”

Five rolls his eyes. “Make sure not to stay too long. I’m sure the audience is missing their favourite joke.”

Klaus pats the top of his head, eyes soft despite the cheshire smile. “Yeah, yeah. Nice to have you back, Fivey.”

Five sucks in sharply. He fiddles with his fingers. “Yeah.”

Two brothers and one sister down. 

Two to go.

  
  


—

  
  


Five is asked more questions again.

He’s sick of the interrogations, answering as bluntly as he possibly can. He gives no more than what they ask and he’s fed up about it. 

They ask him about the injuries found during the kit, and Five tells them only what he knows. He talks about the collar and the beatings and the endless mind torturing.

Then they ask him what they talked about. What Robert would say to him during all those moments. What he would call him, and what Five would say back.

They ask him if he ever said no.

Allison interferes right then and there and snaps at them, instinctively protective, insisting that it’s _hardly appropriate to ask him that! How dare you?_

But Five’s chest tightens and his heart pounds against his rib cage, his throat clogging over as his eyes fade out into a sluggish haze. He feels his fingers twitching far beyond his control. He wants the floor to crumble open and pull him down into the black underground where he belongs.

_Because he never said no._

  
  


—

  
  


Seven hours in, and Five wants to die.

He’s used to feeling this way. He’s spent a year wanting nothing more, nothing less.

He’d been hoping it would be gone away by now.

It hasn’t.

  
  


—

  
  


When he wakes up a third time, Vanya is holding his hand.

He jerks away so violently his wrist flinches up and smacks under his jaw, triggering a sentence of reactions in subtle tremors down his body. He holds his hands in balls at his chest, staring at her with disbelieving eyes.

“Five,” she whispers, and he realises how late it is. It must be night-time now. Then he glances around the room to see everyone else asleep, and his suspicions are confirmed.

Vanya has her hands held up in surrender, a small smile curled at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she murmurs, slowly lowering them under his watch. “It’s just—it’s really good to see you.”

He can’t answer her. He just stares. 

It’s becoming a bit of a habit, that.

“Diego should be here by morning,” she says, nodding to the rest of their siblings, passed out crooked on hospital chairs. “He just called.”

“Oh,” Five says. He can’t think.

Vanya is no social butterfly, and her awkwardness tends to enhance by nature at someone else’s lack of confidence, but for some reason Five’s running tendency of being unable to communicate with his siblings doesn’t affect her. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Am I supposed to pretend like I believe that?”

He raises a brow. Well, would you look who grew a backbone. 

He can’t help the stupid smirk playing at his lips. “Yeah,” he says, turning away so she can’t see him smile. “Goes without saying.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, leaning forward with a small smile of her own. Then her face drops into something more serious, and Five instantly wants to delve back into sleep world. “I’m a master of the ‘I’m fine’ line, and you’re on something else if you think that one will fool me.”

“Vanya, what time is it?” Five sighs, exasperated. He’s in no mood to be dealing with her heart to hearts. He’s just woken up, for God's sake.

“Three am,” Vanya tells him. “You were twisting around in your sleep . . . bad dream?”

“No,” Five says instantly. It’s too quick, and she keeps looking at him, searching his face. He doesn’t like it. “I just move around a lot in my sleep. That’s all.”

She looks like she wants to say something, disbelief flashing across her face, but refrains from doing so. She nods and eases more into her seat, eyes flittering about the room. She looks oddly nervous, for her accusing tone only moments ago. She looks like she feels like a mouse inside a snake tank, huddling and twittering and cowering under the eyes, prey to the wicked.

And that simply just won’t do.

“How are you?” Five asks, much softer than he’d intended. It comes out small and scarily authentic, so humane and compassionate from a soul bred to be morphed into something that isn’t.

Her left brow twitches. “Me? I’m fine, Five. It’s _you_ I'm concerned about.”

“Don’t be,” Five mutters, picking at the corner of his pillow. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“I’m going to put a ban on the word ‘fine’ from now on,” Vanya teases, smiling slightly. “Because I don’t believe you for a second.”

“Then don’t,” Five shrugs, unbothered. “That’s your opinion. I told you what I told you. I won’t force you to accept it.”

“That’s not—come on, Five.”

“What?”

“You know that’s not what this is.”

“You blatantly dismissing an answer I’ve given you about how I’m feeling because it doesn’t suit your deception of me after a year of my absence? Fine, what is it, then?”

Vanya swallows, looking down. “I’m sorry.”

Five lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “So am I,” he murmurs. “I’m just tired of hearing that today, alright? I keep getting asked how I am and I keep repeating that _I am fine_ and nobody is capable of understanding that! Why ask if you’re going to disagree with what I say? _Jesus_.”

He’s irritated, and she can tell, nibbling on her lower lip and careful when she looks in his direction. It’s obvious, Five has always been an open book in expressing his anger. It was never hard to tell growing up what mood he was in—in fact every single member of the academy was foundationally aware of his temper. He made sure of that, in order to ensure that when he was pissed, they would _stay out of his way._

This situation is no different, but Five wishes it were.

“We just want to help you,” Vanya says in the end. She gives a tiny shrug, clicking her ankles together. “No one is intending to disagree with you to be malicious. We just want you to tell us what’s going on so we can be there with you. You don’t have to do this alone, Five.”

“Well, I don’t need your help!” Five snaps. “I’ve done forty five years of isolation and a year with a _fucking_ psychopath, all by myself. I don’t need you to hold my goddamn hand through this. I don’t need _any_ of you.” 

And with that, he turns away from her, and pulls the sheets over his head.

  
  


—

  
  


Morning is bright and coffee-smelling and full of weary faces that blink too much when they look at him.

Five won’t touch his breakfast and he’s prepared to bite at anyone who enforces it. He’s grumping in his bed, arms folded and a deep scowl on his face. His siblings aren’t talking much. Allison is in the cafeteria getting food for everyone with Luther and Klaus keeps making weird noises to fill the silence.

Vanya shoots him a funny look every now and then, but other than that she too, is motionless.

The fifth and final Hargreeves sibling welcomes himself in only minutes after Klaus had attempted yet again to brighten the mood with animal sounds, barging in all heavy footed and wild haired as if he’d been shot.

Diego arrives unannounced, but not unwanted. He stands in the doorway and catches his breath, eyes fixated sternly on Five as if he’d disappear if he dared to look away.

“Diego,” Five says. “You’re here.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Diego replies, pushing himself off the doorframe and striding over to flop onto the chair closest to Five’s bed. “How’s it going, old man?”

It’s too casual, too forced, to match his rapid chest and flushed face that gives all away his hurry to be here. His entire everything is too urgent for him to act so nonchalant and calm. Five isn’t sure how he feels about that.

“Good,” he answers, surprising himself that it’s one without a quip. “How uh, how was the trip?”

“Long,” Diego runs a hand down his face, sinking further into the seat. “Too damn long. I wanted—I tried to get here faster.”

“It’s fine,” Five says. It isn’t. “You haven’t missed much.”

“You missed Klaus’ pig noises,” Vanya grins, and Klaus pretends to be shocked and throws a pen from the bedside at her and everything is suddenly just a little bit easier.

Five watches his siblings interact and smiles.

  
  


—

  
  


It’s night again. His final night, then he can go home at last.

Five walks the four am corridors of the hospital like a spiritless phantom, legs moving like clockwork with his soul and mind left behind. 

He’s not sure what he’s thinking about. His brain is on overdrive and he doesn’t know where he wants to be, where he wants to go. What he _wants_. 

He just wants to feel better. 

For all of this to _go away._

He wanders and wanders and wanders until his bare feet are too cold against the tiles and his body is gooey mush. It serves him no purpose, no justice, and that walk for a head clearing has done nothing but the opposite. 

He climbs back into bed with a heavy heart, the leads of his limbs pulling him apart with every stressed stitch of thought. He feels so _shit._

And his siblings surround him, left and right, circling his bed like a tribe of protectors.

And yet, it is nothing like how he’d thought it would be. He doesn’t feel how he’d hoped to feel—blanketed in that weighing comfort in deep layers around that speckled shell of pain. Guarded and safe and shielded from the horrors of what once was. What always was. What he’s always known.

It’s nothing like how he imagined.

And it hurts.

—

  
  


They take him home.

The academy is the same. It smells the same, looks the same. It’s the home he grew up in, the home he would always know. He feels the worst kind of nostalgic when he steps in the front door, all bad memories of long ago’s and apocalypses. Memories of his father and his backward ways, sicking up his brains after training days and tripping down staircases and scribbling on the walls and listening to the ones he loved. Memories of Vanya and her violin and Ben and his books and Diego carving knives into the table and equations and equations and equations. 

Memories of a time that isn’t theirs anymore. A time of fresh-faced baby-kids with superpowers bigger than they were, a life too bold and brawl to be happy. A life taken from them the second it was given, replaced with something too dark and infectiously insufferable to be considered nothing other than to _exist_.

Because that’s all they did, back then. Exist. Loudly, perhaps, but they were ornaments in a snowglobe made by a man who hated the winter, existing in a world they didn’t choose to be in.

And Five has never chosen, no matter where he’d been and where he’d ended up, the choice had never been his. Never has been, never will be. 

And it’s a bitter way to live.

“What do you want to do, Five?” Allison asks him, as they all trail sort of awkwardly to the kitchen. “I could get lunch started if you’re hungry?”

“I’m going to my room,” Five tells her, spinning on his heel because for the life of him he can’t muster up the balls to try and blink. 

“Alone?” Klaus calls after him, sounding defeated. “Why?”

“Because I want to,” Five says, and keeps walking.

  
  


—

  
  


His room feels wrong.

It’s too big and too small at the same time, chalk all over the walls and lego creations on his desk and little rumples in his bed covers from where someone had obviously been sitting there. 

Five hadn’t really gotten the chance to simply _be_ in his room after the first apocalypse. He’d spent his days running around after his siblings and the glass eye, head so dead-set on saving the world he’d forgotten to save himself, too.

His room as a child had been his safe space, his comfort zone, his place that was all his and nobody else’s. With a lock on the door and a lock on his heart, it’d been somewhere not even the best of keys worked. He’d done everything in his room. Everything.

It’s quiet. Once upon a time he loved the quiet, the peacefulness, the ticks of a clock of time passing by, left with nothing but his own thoughts.

And then he sent himself to the end of the world and he realised he didn’t like the quiet so much anymore.

But it’s too _loud_ with his siblings, too much to keep up with them all at once. He can’t deal with a conversation and trying to communicate with them sounds as appealing as ripping off his skin right to the bone.

Nothing is enough right now, nothing is good. He doesn’t know how to make it _better_. How is he meant to fix this? Is he going to feel this way forever? He hopes not. 

He thinks about how he really misses Dolores.

He thinks about how he never said no. 

And then Five curls up on top of his duvet, and cries.

  
  


—

  
  


They try hard with him.

It’s a team effort, a constant at-it. They talk to him when he doesn’t talk first, keeping a steady pace of something that is a touch too strained to be normal. 

And Five appreciates the efforts, he does, it just gets overwhelming, sometimes. Having their attention focused solely on him for such long periods of time—it’s exhausting. And they seem to have difficulty understanding that he just wants to be left alone. He doesn’t _want_ their pity. He doesn’t want them to tiptoe around him, talk to him like a wounded, frightened animal. 

He’s not as trapped as that. As broken, defenseless, hopeless. He’s not a weakened lost thing mushed on the side of the road, worn down to its final layers of raw nothingness. 

(That’s exactly what he is.)

  
  


—

  
  
  


He cracks three weeks in.

He’s not sure how it happens. Or when. All he knows is that he didn’t _want_ it to happen, but things don’t ever seem to be going his way, these days.

All because Vanya put a peanut-butter and marshmallow sandwich right in front of him. 

He stares at it, then at her, then at it again. His tongue grows thick and heavy in his mouth, forearms twitching spastically from the elbow down. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, or what he wants to think, but the world is caving inwards in hazy dimpled darks at the corners of his vision, his eyes are burning, burning, burning and he’s biting his lip hard enough to taste the metallics of blood.

“. . . Five?” Vanya is saying, from the opposite side of the kitchen table. The kettle is whistling somewhere in the back of Five’s mind and so are her words, far away in a place he doesn’t seem to be.

He’s thinking of Robert. Thinking of himself and asking for the sandwich—and then the shopping trip and the garden shed and the purpled knuckles and bruised underjaw and blood-clotted nose. He’s thinking of the hair pulling and the mouthing on his collarbone and how all he asked for was one _fucking sandwich_.

And all he got was pink eyelids and dented memory functions and a mind so fragile in its conditioning he never knew what was real and what was not. Still doesn’t. Will he ever?

“I’m fine,” he wheezes out, from where he’s trying to gulp in extra breaths as it seems something is sucking it out of him. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” Vanya whispers, crossing the table and crouching in front of him. “No, Five, you’re not.”

He’s not convincing anybody. Not even himself.

“I—” and a sob rips out of his throat, hot in his mouth, and he covers his face in shame. He can’t be doing this, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“Five,” Vanya is saying, grasping his hands. “Five, Five, breathe with me, okay? In and out, come on, match my breaths.”

She holds it for three beats, exhaling heavily as he does his best to copy her. He inhales, his eyes finding hers, latching on tight as he squeezes her fingers in attempts at calming himself down. 

“That’s it,” she murmurs, rubbing her thumbs in circles across his hands. “That’s it, Five. Nice and slow.”

And something about that statement sets him off again, and before he knows it he’s crying openly in front of her, the same way he cried and clawed at the floor of the basement only so many weeks ago. The same way he cried all those nights before, filled with bucketfuls of loneliness and a rawed heart deeply desiring for something more.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he gasps out, turning his head away and shutting his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Vanya.”

“Why?” She asks him, letting go of one hand to gently turn his face towards her. “Why? You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“ _Yes_ I _do_!” Five cries, twisting out of her hold and grabbing tuftfuls of dark locks to pull between his fingers. “I do, I do.”

“Five,” Vanya says, and she’s never sounded more serious. So _firm._ “You have, nothing, and I mean nothing, to say sorry for. Do you understand? _Nothing_.”

Five bites his lip again and looks away. His face is crumbled into something awful, pain and horror edged tight into his features. “That’s not true. You can’t say that just to—just to make me feel better.”

He’s still tugging at his hair, ripping at his scalp unkindly. She takes a second before grabbing onto his wrists to gently pull away. “Stop that,” she murmurs, ever so soft. “Don’t hurt yourself like that.”

“I deserve it,” Five mumbles, feeling a fresh set of tears overwhelm his eyes again. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Stop it!” She says. “Stop apologising Five! Please!”

She looks as desperate as he does now, a sudden despairacy shadowing across her face in which Five isn’t sure if or not is deliberate.

“Vanya,” he croaks weakly, and at last, she pulls him in.

(He can’t remember the last time he was hugged.)

For a second, he thinks he’s going to black out. Vanya’s arms aren’t strong and protective, but they are tight and comforting all the same. She holds him with genuinity, her touch sweet and supportive as he slumps into her. 

Her hand finds its way to his back, flatting against it all feathery and soft. She rubs circles there, around and around and around. It feels nice.

Really nice.

And he hates how nice it feels. So foreign and strange after lifetimes of cruelty, and an act so honest and upfront is almost too much to handle. To accept. 

And Five has seen the ends of everything. Dealt with things too incomprehensible to be handled. A simple hug shouldn’t send him over this way—and yet it does.

It does, it does, it does.

“Vanya,” he grits out. “Vanya, let me go. Just—just let go.”

She loosens her grip, but doesn’t release him. “Chill,” she whispers. “Just, _chill._ ”

He breathes. He breathes again. He keeps breathing.

And then he hugs her tight, and doesn’t let go.

  
  


—

  
  


“Was it scary?” Klaus asks. 

It’s a Saturday morning and it’s raining heavily outside. It’s early—too early—but the thrums of waterfall harsh against the window panes had woken Five before the sun had a chance to rise, leaving him wandering lost around the academy.

Now he is back in bed, the covers pulled to his chin and Klaus on the floor right beside his face, back flat up against the bedside and head tilted to look at him. He’d been up doing God knows what, and upon greeting, had silently followed Five right back to his room.

Five hadn’t sent him away. He doesn’t know why.

“Was what scary?” He replies, the miserable weather convincing him into burrowing further into the duvet. 

“Oh, you know,” Klaus waves a hand. “The whole kidnapped-and-locked-in-a-basement thing.”

“Oh,” Five says. “That.”

“That,” Klaus confirms. 

“No. It wasn’t scary.”

“At all?” Klaus doesn’t even sound like he believes him.

Five sighs, lifting up a finger to itch at his eye. “No, Klaus. It was irrational and irritating, being held captive by a delusional maniac fuelled by his own self pleasure. It was boring and repetitive and I hated it.”

“He was mean,” Klaus accuses, legs stretched out in front of him. “You said so.”

“I did,” Five says. “That doesn’t make it scary.”

“It has to have.”

“Do you think I’m scared of someone who’s _mean_?” Five says, raising a brow. It’s a barrier, all of it. Klaus is cutting too close.

His brother leans in, the darkness in the room only lightened by the streetlamps outside. “I think you’re scared of someone with more power than you.”

“And what makes you think he had more power than me?” Five snaps back, too quickly.

“The fact,” Klaus replies, squinting at him. “That you were stuck there for a _year,_ and he’s still out there somewhere running around like a little do-gooder, and you’re here a nervous bag of bones thinking that nobody notices how skittish you are when, funnily enough, everybody does. Face it, Fives. You’re not fooling anybody.”

“Did I ask you to come in here and tell me that?” Five says, incredibly defensive. “Did I? I don’t think I did.”

“Nobodies going to ask for what they don’t want to hear,” Klaus says. He places an elbow on the bed, fingers pinching at the covers. “That doesn’t make it any less of the truth.”

“Fuck off, Klaus,” Five grumbles, rolling over and turning his back to him. “Get out. I didn’t ask for you to be here.”

“Sometimes,” and Klaus is gentler, now, shifting somewhere behind him until the bed dips lowly. “You don’t have to ask for people to know.”

And then, to anyone and everyone’s surprise, Klaus climbs right in beside him, close enough to feel warmth but far enough it isn’t suffocating. “I know it’s . . . hard, to say what you’re feeling Five, but Jesus Christ on a _bike_ if you want a hug just _say_ _so_.”

“I don’t want anything from you!” Five shuffles further away, hardened and tensed. “I didn’t ask because I’m not looking for it. _You_ followed me here, remember?”

“After _you_ were stalking the hallways of our bedrooms like a blind duck,” Klaus grins, Five can feel it, and braves slinging an arm lightly around his neck. “You stopped outside Allison’s room three times. Vanya's twice. I saw you.”

“You’re a freak,” Five says, wriggling at the weight under his jaw. “Don’t just _watch_ me.”

“I wanted to see what you were doing,” Klaus admits, smiling into his shoulder. “I don’t know, Five. You looked like you were really conflicted with yourself. And you—come on. You never actually let yourself do what you want. Ever.”

“What is it that I want, then?” Five mutters, twisting his head further into the pillows. Klaus’ cheek follows. “A hug? A stupid hug?”

“ _Comfort_ ,” Klaus murmurs. “Comfort, Five. A chance to relax for two damn seconds. You just won’t let yourself. Why?” 

“I’m—what is this, a fucking Five Hargreeves character study?” Five glares over a shoulder at him, debating internally whether or not to just shove him off the bed. “Stop trying to _inspect_ me, you weirdo. I don’t need your very _incorrect_ analysis on my actions, actually.”

“You were like this when you got back from the apocalypse,” Klaus continues, ignoring him. He’s careful, now. “All jumpy and haywire. Always having a third eye open for something that wasn’t there.”

“Because the world was fucking _ending_ ,” Five nearly shouts, exasperated. “Are you dumb, Klaus?”

Klaus makes a soft humming noise. “I don’t think it was just that, Five.”

“What else could it be?”

“Fear of the unknown.”

“Right,” Five nearly cackles, stuffing his nose further into his pillow. “Right, Klaus. That’s it. Congratulations, you’ve got me all figured out.”

“I’m not trying to figure you out,” Klaus says, mellowly. “I’m trying to help you, y’know? And, really, I don’t give a shit if you don’t ‘want’ it. You need it. You’ve always needed it.”

“So I’m incapable now,” Five does laugh, this time, and it’s spiteful and filled with feist. “Keep going, Klaus. Tell me more.”

“Don’t be like this,” Klaus murmurs. He chases after Five’s consistent edging, writhing up behind his brother until they’re pressed warm against one another. “Don’t twist my words. I’m not saying you’re not able to do it on your own—that you can’t. It’s that you just—you could just do with the extra hands, yeah?”

“No,” Five disagrees.

“No one is expecting you to pull this one over all on your own,” Klaus sounds sleepier. “And it especially shouldn’t be you. Let us _in_ , Fives. Please. I’m asking you to trust us.”

Five lets his eyes settle and close, relaxing his shoulders to sink further into the mattress. He can feel Klaus’ elbow on his hip bone, a sharp chin nudging against the top of his head.

It feels sweet. 

“I do,” Five says, and slips into slumber at last.

  
  


—

  
  
  


He doesn’t trust them. 

He wants to.

But he can’t.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

  
  


—

  
  


It’s two steps forward, ten steps back, these days.

Sometimes Five feels rather fine. Nothing splendid, but nothing awful, either. Simply neutral. Normal. Whatever normal is.

Some days are good, and some are bad. Some days he wakes up and listens to his own heartbeat, the vibrations settling and grounding from their gentle thrums against his ribs. He’ll slip a finger under his nightshirt and press down on the tender skin on his chest, listening, feeling, breathing.

Some days he wakes up after a nightful of broken rest, devilish dreams too vivid to rinse out without it’s shield of sleep. His eyes will be plundered with rings of red and his fingers will twitch from where they’re fisted beneath the pillow. 

And then he’ll cry. He always cries.

And he’s sick of crying.

In the final week of the first month of being home, Five awakens with a bad ache in his chest. Not the kind where your body is pained and swollen with inside sores, but the kind where it’s heavy armfuls of negative mind, the thoughts dark and loud and endlessly cruel.

It plagues him the second of wake-up, and he knows instantly today will be a bad day.

He pulls the covers around himself. It’s still not bright outside, and the room is flecked with silver dust mites from the rays of moon leftover from before. He wishes he found comfort in the night the way he used to.

He’s afraid of it, now.

He can hear the coffee pot downstairs, pairs of legs and feet flittering about the kitchen. He can hear faint chatter, too, but only if he pays close attention. He’s not sure who they may be that’s up so early, but the vague fade-away of voices and movement triggers unwanted memories of Robert and the basement, and how he could hear quiet noises from outside then, too.

That thought leaves his heart racing fast, and he stumbles out of bed and throws his door open, in need of reassurance that he is not trapped in here, he’s _not._

Not anymore.

With a sigh of relief that makes him feel foolish, Five steps outside his bedroom on bare feet, scuttling across the landing to the staircase down to the kitchen. He holds the bannister as he trundles down, fingers gripping tightly as he concentrates on _one foot in front of the other._

He’s not sure when he became so unbalanced, either.

He arrives as quietly as he can, nimble-footed and tedious as he covers his hands with the sleeves of his pyjamas, feeling awkward and out of place in his own kitchen. 

Diego is the only one present, humming softly to himself whilst pouring protein powder into the blender. He doesn’t even notice Five as he prepares himself his breakfast.

“Hi,” Five says, because he feels ridiculously stupid. “What are you making?”

“Jesus— _fuck_ , Five,” Diego flinches, startled out of his skin. He places a hand over his heart, an action rather dramatic, and huffs out of his throat, heavy and exaggerated. “Don’t _do_ that, man. Scared the shit outta’ me.”

“Sorry,” Five says, plainly. He means it. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Diego says, after a moment. He checks him over, eyes narrowing with a strange suspicion. “. . . You okay?”

“Yes,” Five answers, slowly making his way over to sit down at the table. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re up early,” Diego shrugs, flipping the lid onto the blender. He doesn’t turn it on, keeping his hand on it as he focuses on Five. “Really early, actually. Something bothering you?”

“No,” Five says, with an air of impatience all too characteristic of him. “I already said I was fine. Drop it.”

Diego doesn’t answer, chewing the inside of his cheek before switching on the blender, and the room is corrupted into loud noises of blade-cut and grit, torturous and unkind and harsh on the ears. 

Five leans forward and rests his chin on his crossed arms on the table, watching the fruits and yoghurt and whatever ingredients Diego poured into the cup mix into a lumpy liquid. 

As soon as it’s switched off, a wispy echoing of the slicing sound ringing in the air, Five speaks again. “Was someone else down here with you?”

“Why do you ask?” Diego says, rather than answering, pulling out two glasses from the cupboards and setting them aside. 

“Because I heard you talking,” Five smushes his cheek into his forearm. “Who were you talking to?”

“I was on the phone,” Diego tells him, pouring the smoothie into the glasses. It’s a smooth process, a drop not spilling anywhere else other than its destination. Five admires the cleanness of it. “Did I wake you?”

“You would have with your wonderful mixing machine,” Five mutters, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you like, go out and get some? You’ll wake everybody else.”

“This house is big,” Diego grins, sliding a glass over to him. “I'm sure it won’t be too loud.”

“Thanks,” Five murmurs, lifting his head to peer at the drink. After a small inspection, he frowns and dips his finger inside it, scooping out a tiny amount to place on his tongue. 

“You’re supposed to drink it,” Diego teases, after sipping at his own. “I can get you a straw, if you want.”

“Why would I want a straw?” Five says, dipping his finger in again. “I’m just trying to see if I like it.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.”

He keeps at it for a while, before he gives in and wraps his fingers around the glass and pulls it to his lips. He drinks the second half of it in one go, tipping his head back as he engulfs in the sweetness slithering down his throat.

Once that’s finished he dips his hands in again, scraping out the remains sticking to the side of the glass. He doesn’t seem to notice Diego’s raised brow—or just doesn’t care. 

“It can’t be _that_ good,” Diego says, as Five sucks casually at his fingers; something he can’t watch for two seconds without turning to grab a towel.

“C’mere,” he says, leaning over the table. “Give me your hands.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re filthy, Five.”

“I’m cleaning them.”

“ _Give_.”

Five stares at him. He’s hesitant, eyes fixated so obscenely on his. Cautiously, he slowly lowers his hands from his mouth and places them in front of his brother. “. . . I cleaned them.”

“Well, I’ll clean them again,” Diego says, gently holding his wrist as he wipes down Five’s spit-duced fingers. “Christ, Five. There was _no_ need for that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Five grumbles, flipping his palm under Diego’s murmured instruction. “I haven’t had a smoothie in . . . ever.”

“You’ve never had a smoothie before?” Diego gawks at him. “Really?”

“No. I had one when I was working at The Commission,” Five corrects. “That was ages ago, though.”

“Yeah, sure was,” Diego murmurs, moving onto his other hand. 

“Robert never let me have anything nice,” Five blurts.

Diego stops. Still wiping down Five’s hand, he rubs the towel between his fingers before he slips his own between them, careful as he does so.

“. . . He didn’t, huh?”

“No. One time I asked him—and—no, nevermind,” Five fumbles over himself, cheeks reddening in shame as he attempts to pull his hand away. “Sorry. Thanks for the smoothie. I’m uh—I’m gonna go back to bed.”

“No, no, hang on,” Diego pulls him back gently. “It’s alright, Five. You don’t need to, like, hide stuff, you know? You were saying something. I’m listening.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Five mutters. “Really. It doesn’t. It’s early and I’m still tired so can you just—please let go?”

“Five,” Diego tugs on his hand, softly. “I’m here. Talk to me. Don’t hold back because you’re scared of—of what, I don’t know, judgement? Whatever it is, it’s your head messing with you. I care, alright? I care about you. Seriously, man. Speak up.”

“It’s a stupid story!” Five shouts, suddenly. He pulls harshly at his hand, trying to rip out of Diego’s grip. “It’s a stupid, stupid story and I don’t want to tell it! You can’t make me! So just— _fuck_ , let _go_!”

And with that, he staggers backwards, stumbling over his own two feet, and disappears back to his bedroom. 

Diego watches him run, and sighs.

Two steps forward, ten steps back.

  
  


—

  
  


Luther freaks him out.

It’s an accident. Things like this are always an accident.

It hadn’t meant to happen, of course not, but it did.

It’s nearing the time that is his name and the sky is red and pink as it begins its fall, and Five is reading at the table where Luther is cooking dinner. A strange and irregular affair, but done nonetheless.

Luther snaps the oven door shut, wiping his hands on the mitts. “Hey. Pass me that peeler?”

Five does as asked, silently, without looking up.

Luther takes it from him gingerly, watching him curiously as he opens the bag of sweet potatoes. Five doesn’t seem to know he’s there, and perhaps it’s selective hearing or perhaps it’s not, but he’s certainly lost in his own world, diddled and doddled in a land only meant for him.

“Five?” Luther says, after a moment. When he doesn’t get a reply, he nudges his smaller brother with the peeler. “Hello? You in there, buddy?”

When he doesn’t get a reply _again_ , Luther reaches forward and pokes at the crease between Five’s neck and collarbone, knowing it proves to be a rather ticklish spot for anyone. He’s hoping to wring out a small smile from his brother—hoping to earn himself a laugh.

He gets the opposite.

Five flinches violently from the gesture, flipping out so fast and sudden it’s as quick as his blinks, launching himself off the chair and tripping sideways until he fumbles over and lands with a dense crack on the floor. He curls himself inwards and into a corner, a strangled roar leeching its way up his throat.

“ _St-stop_!” He screeches, holding his arms up in front of his face in defence. “ _Please—Stop_!”

Luther backs away in his own stricken state, holding his hands up in surrender. Confusion laces his features, as does panic, and he lowers himself until he’s kneeling in front of Five, a good distance between them to give him his space.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” he says, urgency in his tone. “Five—Five it’s just me. It’s Luther. You’re not in any trouble, okay?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Five howls, and before either of them know it, he begins to cry. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I’m _sorry—_ ”

“ _Five_ ,” Luther looks like he’s about to cry himself, conflicted between edging closer or moving further away. “You don’t need to be sorry, it’s me! It’s just me! You haven’t done anything wrong!”

“I hate it!” Five is screaming, now, and the sight is so unsettling and bewildering Luther can only helplessly stare at him for a minute. “I hate it—it _hurts_ , please, it hurts so _bad—_ ”

“What hurts?” Luther cries, frantically. “What hurts, Five?”

“ _Everything_ ,” Five whimpers, and sobs even harder. His fingers scratch and claw at the floor, knees twitching and elbows trembling. Everything about him is so unstable and wobbly, unbalanced and terrified and _broken_.

“Five,” Luther whispers, and scooches just that bit closer. “Five, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not—you’re not—you’re _home_. You’re not there anymore. You’re here. You’re _safe_. You’re safe.”

And the words thankfully seem to have some sort of impact on Five, who quits his screaming and gathers his breaths, struggling with collecting himself but trying all the same. He doesn’t budge from his fold, somehow winding into himself even tighter. “I’m—I’m—what?”

“You’re safe,” Luther repeats, deciding to hell with it and taking Five’s hands in his own. “You’re okay, okay? You’re home, with me, with Luther, and everything is gonna be fine.”

Five’s face scrunches up as if he’s in pain, eyes screwed shut in temporal blindness as he sniffles weakly and freezes up in Luther’s grip. After a moment, his eyes reopen and glaze over in unfocused haze, and lock onto their intertwined hands. 

As soon everything is momentarily calm, Luther gently settles Five’s hands back down, keeping one of his own placed on his upper arm. “I’m sorry, Five,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Five doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, nodding along to Luther’s profuse apologies. When it seems he’s relaxed enough under his grip, Luther pulls his hands away, leaning back to breathe himself.

And then, quite slowly, Five swallows and follows, leaning forward and tentatively crawling towards him. It’s another hesitation before he heaves out a sigh and drops his forehead onto Luther’s chest, scooting in closer until he’s a bundle in his arms.

Luther, on instinct, curls around him protectively, arms encircling Five’s bony frame. No words are spoken in appreciation of the moment. They simply allow themselves to just be.

“It’s okay,” Five whispers shakily, after a while. He lifts his head to look at Luther, eyes glassy and shallow-greened and gentler than they’d ever been. “We’re both learning.”

  
  


—

  
  


Allison cuts his hair.

He doesn’t know why he asks her. He just does.

“Do you have scissors?” He says, on a loud rainy day where the black dandrils of cloud flash grey and white outside. The academy always seems darker like this—haunted, eerie, rhythms of mystery lying beneath the underground of the hardwood floor. Sinister stories untold but not unknown; but that’s always the way, isn’t it?

“What for?” Allison asks. She’s curled up on the sofa, a book in her hands and coffee in front of her. She says it kindly, head tilting to glance at him from where he’s appeared at the entrance of the living room. He hangs back a bit, still oddly awkward.

“For cutting my hair,” he tells her. He stands rigid and firm, arms flat down by his side and fingers playing with the hems of his pyjamas. 

She seems surprised, and doesn’t hide it, closing the book over with widened eyes and a smile tugging her lips upwards. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” Five says. She doesn’t move. “Please,” he adds.

Allison looks at him for a moment, a soft expression on her face that stems from somewhere fond, before she nods and rises from the couch, dropping the book in place of herself and heading towards the bathroom. Five follows her pathetically, unsure of what to say.

She lays towels out on the rims of the sink, pulling out a pair of scissors from the drawers underneath it. Grabbing bottles of shampoo and conditioner from the bathtub, she inspects them closely, before turning to him. “When did you last wash your hair?”

“Um,” Five says. “Yesterday?”

She raises a brow at him, unimpressed. “Come on. What’s the real answer?”

“I meant to, yesterday,” Five protests, defensively, disliking the way she’s looking at him. “I just—got distracted. I got busy.”

“You slept all day, yesterday.”

“So?”

“Five,” Allison sighs, and gestures to him to come closer to her. “If you don’t want to—or, if you don’t have the energy—to look after yourself, I can do it with you, okay? I don’t mind washing your hair if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“I don’t have fucking Parkinsons,” Five snarls, cruelly. 

Allison takes a second to answer, finding patience within herself not to snap at him. “Don’t say that. You don’t need to have a disease to struggle with basic things.”

“Who says I’m _struggling_?” Five squints at her, raising his hands in question. “I’m _fine_.”

“Five, you haven’t showered in four days,” Allison points out. “That’s not _fine_.”

“One day, four days, same stupid thing,” Five mutters, folding his arms in a huff on the toilet seat.

“No, it isn’t.”

“I don’t care,” Five glares at her, and it’s remarkable how quickly his tone has changed from something almost meek to malicious, cruel and sharp and _mean_. “It’s my body. I didn’t shower for forty-five years once and everything turned out _fine_. Nobody died just because I didn’t pamper myself with overpriced hair products.”

“But it probably didn’t feel nice, did it?” Allison challenges, leaning down to plug the drain of the bath. She sits on the edge of the tub, watching him. “Being so dirty. I mean, your hair probably itched, you probably felt mucky and uncomfortable, probably got sick, infections, bacteria . . . need I go on?”

He doesn’t answer to that. She sighs.

“Look, Five, I’m trying to help,” she says, turning on the taps to run hot water. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m just saying, if you need a helping hand, don’t feel ashamed to ask for it.”

“All I did was survive,” Five murmurs, after a while. He pulls his knee up onto the toilet and picks at loose string on his socks. “I ate bugs and drank soiled water. Being dirty is the least of your concerns when the world has ended, Allison.”

“I get that,” Allison says, even though she can’t possibly get it at all. “I understand all you worried about was getting back but—you _are_ back, now. And everything is fine. You did it. You saved the world, there’s no apocalypse, you’re safe from—from him, and you’re allowed to live in little luxuries, okay? Turn your back on everyone else and do what _you_ want.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she states, firmly, tugging at his arms to pull him up from the seat. “I don’t want to hear it. Now come on, get in. I won’t look.”

He doesn’t argue anymore, surprising himself, and does as he’s told. It’s a slow procedure, and it still feels horribly wrong to be undressed when Allison is standing right there. She isn’t looking—she isn’t, but it’s still so, so difficult.

And it’s been a long time since he’s had a bath. A really, really long time.

Then he steps in, one foot after the other, hissing as he adjusts to the water temperature. He sinks down and pulls his knees to his chest, his skin already hot and soothed with the scalding heat.

“You can turn around, now.”

Allison does so, giving him a warm smile before opening the lid of a bottle of bath soak, pouring in a huge amount under the still running taps. There on, beneath the pressure of the water, bursts of bubbles begin to form. She sneaks a glance at Five to see his reaction, and her heart gallops in her chest when she sees his eyes light up.

“I haven’t—” he starts, scooting forward in the bath. “I don’t—I haven’t seen these things for a while.”

“I thought so,” Allison murmurs, giving it another minute before she turns off the faucets and rolls her sleeves up. She kneels at the side of the tub, dipping her fingers in through the water to make sure it’s hot enough, sailing her hands up and down the infestation of bubbles. She can’t help the grin she sports when Five does the same.

Deciding to let him play around for a minute before she gets started, Allison gathers a handful of the bubbles and blows on them gently in Five’s direction. He smirks, rolling his eyes, before one pops right into his face, and his jaw drops in an open grin. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself!”

In revenge, he cups bubbles of his own with two hands, moving closer to her before blowing them into her face. She laughs, yelling out a _‘Five_!’ before leaning down to flick the bath water onto him.

He splashes her right back, his chuckles turning into little giggles as she entertains him, shamelessly allowing him to soak her with the soapy liquid as they indulge in their small bubble war.

“Okay, okay,” Allison laughs, wiping at her eyes after Five had gone on a round of repeatedly splattering her in water. “Let’s—let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Five, still grinning, sobers up and nods, dropping his hands back into the bath and resting his chin on his knees.

With a small jug she’d left beside the tub, Allison dips it into the water before pouring it over Five’s hair, thoroughly wetting it and entailing the ‘drowned rat’ look. She snorts to herself at the thought, and then scratches lightly at his head as if in apology for thinking it.

Squeezing out shampoo onto her hands, she then slowly massages the product into his scalp, rubbing circles across his head with gentle fingers. He leans into her touch, unknowingly, tilting his head back just slightly to push into the sensation.

She leaves the shampoo to soak into his hair, grabbing a loofah to pour some lemon-smelling body wash onto it. She starts at his neck, gut twisting painfully as she tries to ignore the endless dark marks still so ever present on his skin.

As she makes her way down his back, scrubbing lightly, she notes that Five has his cheek smushed into his knees, eyes closed softly. He looks relaxed. Vulnerable. 

It’s so rare to see him like this, Allison takes her time to memorise the moment. To look at the absence of crease between his brows, to capture the way his arms hang loose at his sides, his body airy and soothed without it’s usual tension. And in times like this, Five really does look like a kid.

Such a kid.

She continues to scrub down his back, wishing she could wash away the bruises that linger so unkindly down his spine, forever marks that will remain embedded in his memory forever. She wishes she could wash away the pain that comes with it, too.

“I never said no,” Five blurts.

She stops her movement, careful with the way she slowly pulls back from him. “. . . I’m sorry?”

“I never said no,” Five repeats, and he sounds sour, bitter and anger distasteful on his tongue. “With him. I never—I never said _no_.”

Allison can see the way his hand twitches, his shoulders coming up to square in a hunch at his ears. His eyes are wide open now, and she wonders what he was thinking about to get him to that conclusion.

“You never said yes, either,” she says, quietly. 

And Five exhales, deeply, allowing himself to breathe. His head turns mechanically to look at her, chin wobbling dangerously as his eyes well up unwillingly. The rest of his face stays still, robotic.

The thoughts flood back all at once, crashing down through the undercurrent and drowning him in deep, deep darkness. Overcome with grief, he covers his face with his hands as he tries to force back a sob. “I’m sorry,” tumbles out of his mouth, as does a horrible wailing sound, and Allison drops the loofah back into the bath and wraps her arms around him.

His shoulders tremble terribly, chest heaving heavily as his face screws up in attempt to control himself. His heart is wretched in his chest, gutted and beating fast as his knees bump with his shaking legs. His throat is sore and his heart is burning and he can’t stop damn _crying_.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Allison whispers, aching when she hears his hiccups. “No isn’t just a word. It’s not agreeing to something, it’s lack of consent, it’s visible discomfort. There’s millions of ways to say no, Five. Not saying the exact word doesn’t mean you wanted it.”

Five closes his eyes. He never said no.

But he never said yes, either.

He gathers himself together quicker than he expects, sniffing hard and wiping an arm across his eyes and nose, leaning back into Allison’s touch from where she’d begun to pull away.

“I’m going to wash out the shampoo, okay?” She says, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Five nods, too worn out to say anything despite the quick recovery.

Allison covers his eyes with her hands as she rinses out the suds with the jug, pressing firmly into his skin to ensure nothing irritates him. She repeats the action several times before applying conditioner, letting that absorb into his hair before washing that out, too.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she tells him, leaning over to hand him a towel. “I’ll grab you something to change into and then we’ll get that hair cut, sound good?”

Another sniff. “Yep.”

“Good.”

The cutting process is much easier. She sits him on a chair she’d brought in from her own room, propping him in front of the mirror and setting a towel on his shoulders. He doesn’t fidget once as she snips delicately at his dark locks, curls of wet hair crowing at his feet.

Five watches each piece drop to the floor silently, often catching her eye through the mirror and giving a little half-smile.

When she’s done, she uses the towel from around his shoulders to dry his hair, lighting up at the laugh he lets out as she ruffles his head. When it’s dried enough, she sets the strayaways in place whilst admiring her handiwork, swallowing thickly as she looks at the boy she grew up with.

“There,” she says, softly. “All done.”

He gives himself a onceover through the mirror, turning his head this way and that, before craning his neck to look up at her.

“I love you, Ally.”

And Allison freezes, turning to stare at him as her eyes slowly cloud with gentle tears. The back of her fingers press against her lips, stifling back a choked cry.

“I love you too, Five,” she whispers. She hugs him.

He hugs back.

  
  


—

  
  
  


Five decides he does trust them. He’s always trusted them.

It takes him a while to realise he never stopped.

He doesn’t think he’s ever going to, either.

  
  


—

  
  


A letter comes in from the police department to tell them Robert is dead. Suicide. Pills.

Diego is pissed about it, having wanted to kill the bastard himself, Luther is adamant that he had too easy a way out, Klaus insists that if anybody should’ve done the job it should’ve been Five, Allison nearly weeps in relief and Vanya seems oddly ecstatic.

Five traces a finger across the black print, mouthing the words to himself. 

Then he grabs Vanya's hand, who is closest to him, and holds it tight.

  
  


—

  
  


Five figures out pretty quickly that he’s like a bomb.

He’s all nothing for some time, blank-faced and somber-eyed and cold-boned to stone, hands and feet glued to steady paper sails and body unmoving in its statured stillness.

And then, he explodes.

It’s one extreme to the other. He can be a blunt pencil led worn to its end, crumbs of a cookie sprinkled over scratched plastic plates, leftover and simply there. Or, he can tear everything apart, destruction so naturally built deep inside his flesh it’s an instinctive reaction, to ruin and wreck and corrupt little by little, until it’s all gone.

And he’ll scream and cry until his voice is all gone too, hoarse and itchy and ripped from him just like everything else. 

And he’s so _tired_. He’s so tired of being this way. Of feeling this way. 

When will it end?

 _Will_ it?

  
  


—

  
  


“I made you some cereal.”

Five glances up from the table. Vanya is standing across from him, all smiles and soft eyes as she pushes the orange bowl towards him. “You don’t have to eat it all. A little bit is fine.”

“I want coffee,” he says. 

“Well, coffee isn’t breakfast,” Vanya tells him, tapping the spoon. “This is.”

“I don’t like cereal.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Five. Come on.”

He doesn’t even care how he sounds ridiculously childish. He stopped caring about that too long ago now, he can’t remember. “I don’t want it.”

“You have to eat.”

“I said I would have coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food,” Vanya insists.

“It’s food to me.”

“It’s not _enough_.”

“Okay, then what is ‘enough?’” Five uses air quotations to mock her concern.

“ _Cereal_ , preferably. Probably more.”

“I said I don’t want cereal.”

“I can make pancakes? Toast?” She suggests, searching around the kitchen for alternatives.

“I don’t want that either.”

“Well then what do you want, Five?” Vanya says, exasperated. 

Five blinks at her, before looking down at his cereal. He spoons it around slowly, dull and motionless. His eyes are blank when they flicker back up. 

“I don’t know,” he says.

  
  


—

  
  


He never does know what he wants, these days.

  
  


—

  
  


Five has nightmares and they make him cry.

He hates how it always is. He wakes up, middle of the night, all sweaty and damp and sticky in the covers, heart thumping ferociously in time with his racing mind, flashes of what once was soiling his deluded thoughts.

He sleeps with a lamp on, now, because he can’t stand waking into darkness anymore.

This night is no different, and he wakes up with the tears clogging his vision and singeing his throat, fingers clutching his bedsheets as he thinks and thinks and thinks.

Usually, he would think too much and wear himself out enough to fall into restless slumber, but this night is different. He’d dreamt of them again. His siblings. 

He’d seen them die too many times, really. He never watched Ben die although he was the only one that stayed dead, but the corpses of his family that remain alive stays familiar and running clockwork in his mind, playing and playing and playing on repeat like a glitchy record.

He has too many things to think about. He just wants it all to _stop_.

He finds himself trailing into the living room. There Diego, Klaus and Vanya—an unlikely trio—are watching a movie.

At three am.

“What are you doing?” Five says, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and scaring them shitless.

“Five, what the _fuck_ ,” Diego growls, as Klaus yelps at the same time much louder than necessary. “You have _got_ to stop doing that man!”

“Sorry,” Five says, although he isn’t sorry at all. “Why are you up so late?” He sounds meek, even to his own ears. He doesn’t like it.

“We were watching a movie,” Vanya says, looking as tired as he feels. “And then there was a sequel to it, and then another one after that, so . . .”

“That’s very long,” Five says. “Are you going to bed now?”

“The movie’s not over yet,” Vanya says. She pauses. “You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

The small part of him that was hoping she would ask that fizzles in his lower gut, the larger, condescendant part of him grizzling in shame. “. . . Really?”

“Yeah!” Klaus smiles, enthusiastically. He pats the seat next to him on the sofa, eyes encouraging. “Unless you’ve got something better to do?” He winks, playfully.

And so Five trudges over, hesitant before climbing into the seat next to Klaus, tucking away into the armrest with cushions fluffed up behind him. A blanket tossed between them is draped over his lap, more so him than them, and they make a great effort of ensuring his comfort. 

They do a good job. He feels floaty and safe. 

He _likes_ feeling this way.

Diego presses play, and the movie jumps back to life. Five doesn’t know what it’s about, nor does he care to, and simply lets his head wander off at the faint background noise as he sizzles out himself. He barely makes it halfway through before he’s nodding off against Klaus’ shoulder, feeling very, very small.

And then, at some point, Klaus grabs his hand from beneath the blanket and rubs his thumb across his knuckles, warm and kind and tenderly delicate. Five pulls away only to grab Klaus’ with both of his own, squeezing and pulling gently at his fingers. It’s soothing, and Klaus just _lets_ him.

And there, gripping his brother's hand and curling up against his side, the chitchat of the otherworld behind the screen fading outwards in the backs of his brains, Five sleeps.

And he dreams good dreams.

  
  


—

  
  


“Hey, Five! I was wondering if you were busy today,” Luther announces himself, appearing in Five’s doorway. “If not, I thought we could do something.” He sounds stupidly unsure.

Five raises a brow, cross-legged on his bed and inspecting his hands. “What?”

“What, what?”

Five sighs irritably, as if this conversation is already too much for him. “What _something_ do you have in mind?”

“Well,” Luther folds his arms to hide his nerves, forcing a disguise of a casual, offhand demeanour. “I thought we could go to uh, a playground.”

Five exhales slowly. “A what?”

Luther swallows. “A playground. You know. Swings. Slides. All that . . . fun stuff.”

“Do I look like a joke to you?”

Luther had been afraid this would happen.

Five’s temper is already unhinged, off the hooks and spiralling downwards, rapidly abrupt and quick in pace, it’s hard to tell when it started. He’s so flip-a-coin, these days, it’s indistinguishable which side of him you’ll get.

“No,” Luther says simply. “I thought it would be fun.”

Five grits his teeth, lips curling into a cutting snarl. “I am _fifty-eight_ years old Luther. I don’t _play_ in a _playground._ ”

“Playgrounds don’t have an expiration date,” Luther says, although that isn’t exactly entirely true. But surely Five can’t know that—Luther can’t imagine how Five would’ve ever been in a playground in his entire life. “And, besides, there’s a whole park around it with trees and stuff. We can go on a walk, or something.”

“A walk,” says Five bluntly. “You want to go on a walk in the park.”

“Yes?” Luther’s frowning, now. “It’d be nice. It’s sunny out.”

“No,” Five growls, eyes dipped down into a dangerous dark. “No.”

“Why?” Luther asks, and it’s genuine and a little softer than he intended, but honest all the same. “Really, Five, why?”

“Because I don’t have _time_ to do useless things like _walking_ in a _park—”_

He cuts himself short, ears reddening at his own misconception. He’s wrong, after all. He has all the time in the world.

“I just don’t want to, alright?” He mutters, crossing his arms, almost as if to shield himself. 

“You don’t have to,” Luther says, acting as nonchalant as possible. “But wouldn’t it be nice to get some fresh air? Relax for a while? You can always just . . . blink back home if you hate it that much.”

And although he hasn’t blinked in months, that, miraculously, seems to drag Five in.

  
  


—

  
  


“I told you it’s nice,” Luther says cheerily, as they stroll down a pathway through the park. It is cold, though, and his hands are stuffed into his pockets to provide even pinches of warmth. 

Five grumbles beside him, hands pocketed in a similar fashion and shoulders hunched. “I’m freezing,” he says, scowling. It goes ignored.

They continue walking for a while, the December air nipping tediously at their skin, sharp and spiteful and spittingly mean.

At some point, Five starts blowing on his hands. He rubs them together and wrings them out, the knuckles reddening by the second. Luther watches with soft eyes, wondering and wondering and wondering.

“Do you want me to hold your hand?” He asks.

Five stares at him, stopping on the spot and feeling his stomach twist in embarrassment. “Are you okay in the head?”

And despite it all, Luther bites his lip to refrain from laughing, the corners of his mouth quirking visibly. “. . . Yeah?”

“I don’t think you are,” Five says. “No, Luther. I don’t want you to hold my goddamn hand.”

“Are you sure?”

Fives fingers look about ready to fizzle off, purpled and rawed and sored and tender to the bone. All of Five looks small and cold. 

“I’m sure.”

“No you’re not,” Luther says, and takes Five’s hand anyway.

Five stares.

He continues staring.

Then he speaks. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“Holding your hand.”

“Well, _don’t,_ ” he hisses, ripping away forcefully and stalking off in a huff. 

Luther watches him stride ahead angrily, folding his arms and shivering in the air of the slithered silver ice. 

He doesn’t call for him, deciding to continue his peaceful pace and let Five have his moment. That’s what usually works out best, anyways. Trying to chase after him usually ends up simply doing more damage. It always has.

(In the end, Five comes back over and silently slips his hand in his.)

(Luther doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. The action is loud enough.)

  
  


—

  
  


They go into the playground next.

It’s a step Luther hadn’t known if Five would be willing to take, but he sees his brother staring longingly at the swing set and takes a course of action.

“Do you want to go over there?” He prompts, gently.

Five looks like he’s having a serious battle with himself, eyebrows joint together in a fuse of contention and mouth set in a straight line. Eventually, he swallows and nods very quietly, allowing Luther to kindly guide him along. 

There’s not many people here—in fact, there’s almost none. Dog walkers and joggers take up the lane ways, but besides that the park is almost entirely empty. Just as well, because Luther thinks Five would rather die than be seen actually having fun.

“The swings are free,” he says, more so as a nudge of encouragement if anything. Five doesn’t budge, glued to the entrance gate directly in front of them. “The whole playground is free. You should go in.”

“I don’t want to,” Five mutters. He looks deeply conflicted, and Luther knows although the internal struggle, deep down he really _does_ want to. “I’ll look stupid.”

There it is. “No, you won’t. One, nobody is here, and two, nobody knows what age you are. You look like any other kid having a good time.”

“I’ll look stupid.”

“Five.” Luther bends down to kneel in front of his brother, tapping his face to get him to look at him. “Hey. Come on. Stop that, alright? You won’t look stupid. You’re the last person in the entire world I would call that. You’re the smartest guy I know. You always have been, ever since we were kids. I’ve always wanted to be as clever as you.”

“If I’m so _smart,_ ” and Five’s nostrils flare with intense rage, eyes flashing in vengeful bloodthirst as his fists clench up white. “Why the hell couldn’t I escape sooner?”

Luther closes his eyes. Breathes heavily through his nose. So _that’s_ what this is about.

When he reopens them, Five’s are reddening and watering with angry tears. “Five. _Five_ ,” he says, trying to sound reassuring but it comes out rather stressful. “That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” Luther says, firmly. He keeps a hold of Five’s jaw, eyes boring into his to show how serious he’s being. “Even the smartest people in the world can’t escape evil. That’s just the way things are. Robert—” it feels sick to say his name “—didn’t outsmart you. He took you and put you somewhere where you had no control. He hurt you. He wasn’t _better_ than you. Do you think he’d be capable of doing half the things you have, Five? Really? I don’t. I think he knows how to do _one_ thing. _Hurt_. And that isn’t smart. That isn’t strong, or brave, or resilient, like everything that you are. It’s _weak_. It’s _cowardly_. He had so many problems with himself he had to pick out a kid to leash them out onto, because he just couldn’t handle it. And you think, after surviving forty-five years in the apocalypse and two more after that, that he _bested_ you? That he won? No, Five. He lost. He lost his own stupid game, and you know why? Because he’s dead, he’s dead and you’re here, you’re still _fucking_ here after all the odds have been against you and so has the end of the world, and you’re still here and he isn’t and _you_ _won_. You always will.”

Five stares at him again, and Luther thinks for a horrible moment that everything he said has gone right over his head.

Then Five blinks, once, twice, and the tears come falling down, quiet slips of dewdrops sickle and pearly on his skin. He pinches at Luther’s sleeve.

“Will you sit on the swings with me?”

And so, Luther uses the cuffs of his sweater to wipe tenderly at Five’s cheeks, dabbing softly at the baby-skin there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, standing up and holding out his hand.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

  
  


—

  
  


Today is not so bad.

Five drinks hot cocoa as the day lathers in hails, thick plunders of sharp-tick cubes lashing against the panes; awfully loud and cynically soothing. It’s white noise to fill in dark space as he sits on the living room floor, an unfinished puzzle set out in front of him.

He sets down his mug on the coffee table, leaning over to gaze down with narrowed eyes at the pieces scattered before him. It’s _mentally stimulating,_ or so Allison had said, for him to play such games like this.

He’d played so and so back with Robert, but he does his best to refrain from thinking about that. Board games are shit, anyways.

His fingers are dancy today, choreographed in their own little improvised routine, tap-tap-tapping at his thigh and twitching as they fumble at the pieces. They tremble under the harsh cluster of grey sky outside, no matter how hard he tries to still them.

It’s one of those days.

He settles for the time being, anyhow, content enough despite the tremors to entertain himself for the afternoon. His sisters are shopping together for fuck-knows-what and Luther and Diego are remodelling Dad’s old office. Five isn’t sure how he hasn’t heard them murder each other yet.

He can hear them, however, from where they are working away loudly upstairs. It’s comforting to hear. More noise. More _natural_ , noise. And maybe he’ll never admit it, but Five loves to listen to his siblings interact. The same way he loves to listen to Vanya’s violin, the stove turning on, doors slamming in livelihood, the fireplace crackling—all the things that sound like _home._

And, really, it’s music to his ears.

He has another few moments of peace before Klaus appears on random, toddling sort of duck-like past the bar and over to Five’s spot on the floor. He peaks over the sofa at him, grinning. “Good evening, Mr. Fives. Watcha’ doing?”

“Puzzles.”

“What puzzles?”

Five reaches over to grab the lid of the box and wave the display picture in his face. “Whatever _that_ is.”

“Oh, cool, a leopard!”

“It’s a cheetah.”

Klaus waves a hand. “Same thing.”

“Uh, no. No it isn’t.”

“Well, whatever,” Klaus pushes himself back off from where he’d been leaning against the head of the sofa and strolls over to the kitchen. “Want anything? It’s four and you haven’t eaten.”

“You don’t know what my body has consumed.”

“Ugh. You’re so _weird._ That literally could mean anything—you should be careful with what you say.” Klaus wrinkles his nose.

“It’s supposed to mean anything,” Five says, bluntly.

“ _Anything_?” Klaus repeats, lips quirking as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

Five scowls in disgust. “You’re a freak.”

“Takes one to know one!”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Klaus gives up then, rolling his eyes with a hint of laughter as he pulls out the loaf of bread from the cupboard. “Well, _I’m_ going to make a sandwich. Lemme know if you want one.”

Five is getting rather sick of sandwiches. “I’ll have another cookie.”

Klaus snorts at that one. “A cookie? Really?”

“What?”

“Nothing—nothing. I just—I guess I forgot little Five had a big sweet tooth.”

“It’s a simple cookie, Klaus.”

“Yeah,” Klaus shrugs. “And all the other little sugary treats you’ve been eating. Don’t think you’re all sneaky, Fives. I’ve been following your crumbs for _weeks_. You’re not as good at hiding as you think.”

Five refuses to be embarrassed, but he feels his neck burn at the accusation. “Well—I don’t get to eat a lot of nice things. I deserve it!”

“Of course you do,” Klaus says, kindly. He pulls out lettuce from the fridge and sets out his ingredients on the counter. “You just don’t have to _hide_ it. Don’t, like, feel _bad_ for having good fucking food, my guy. Nobody’s judging you.”

“That’s not—that’s not what I’m doing.” 

“Sure it’s not.”

“It isn’t!” Five grips a puzzle piece in his hand tightly. “I don’t care if you’re judging my tastes in food. I just prefer to eat alone. I don’t like to be watched.”

“You’re hoarding.”

“I’m what?”

“Hoarding. Food. In your room. Why do you do that?”

“I keep some snacks with me and suddenly it’s a crime?”

“I just want to know _why_ ,” Klaus says. He sets his knife on the lid of the mayonnaise jar, assembling his sandwich together. “You won’t eat with us, you barely sit with us. You just take things and hide in your room. Do—are you—do you think someone’s gonna take it on you?”

Fives chest tightens.

He stares hard at the carpet, eyes burning along with his throat. He heaves out a shaky sigh and clenches his knuckles against the corners of hardwood. He picks at the small scratches embedded into the table. “No.”

“You do,” Klaus says, softly, noticing Five’s instant change in behaviour. “You _do._ Oh, Fives.”

“Don’t,” Five hisses. He adjusts his seating on the floor from cross-legged to tucking his calves under him. “Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want _pity._ I’m sick of everyone feeling fucking sorry for me over stupid things like _food._ ”

“It’s not—that’s not it, either,” Klaus interjects, pouring two cups of coffee before reaching into the cookie jar. “It’s the principle. It’s fine to eat whenever the hell you want. It’s just, like, why don’t you trust us, y’know? And it’s not about us, it’s not, it’s about you and _your_ needs—but, Five, what’s going on?”

Five chews at his nails, unable to meet his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Says the liar,” Klaus replies, ripping open a fresh bag of marshmallows to scatter along Five’s plate. He trails back over to place the goodies of cookies and marshmallow in front of his brother, munching on his own meal. “Again, you’re fooling nobody.”

“I don’t care,” Five mutters, angrily drawing the plate closer to him. He hesitates as he picks a cookie up before turning to Klaus. “. . . _Thanks_.”

“I’m not trying to come at you, here,” Klaus says, after nodding, kneeling down onto his hunkers, sandwich in hand. “Really. I’m not. I’m just—Jesus, Five. I’m _worried_ about you.”

“Well, don’t be.”

“How can I not?” Klaus scoffs, then, eliciting a sharp head turn from Five. “Everything you _do_ is worrying, buddy. You might not think so, but hey! Surprise! Your new normal isn’t actually normal! Hiding food in your room, running away from us after giving yourself the treat of being comforted—come on. Come _on_. You’re so unfair to yourself and for _what_?”

Five nibbles on a chocolate chip at the edge of his biscuit. “I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.” 

“Five—”

“ _Klaus.”_

Klaus inhales a sharp breath at Five’s warning tone, sandwich wolfed. His lip jarrs in irritation. “ _Christ._ Talking to you is like—is like being on a fucking battlefield, or some shit. Never knowing what’s safe and what’s a goddamn triggered bomb. Fuck,” he turns away, staring angrily at the floor. “I don’t know with you anymore, Five. I don’t know if I ever did.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Five snaps. “I never asked you to know. Nobody did.”

“You don’t have to make things so _complicated,_ ” Klaus says, in inhibited frustration. “Don’t you see? You’re home! You’re safe! No more apocalypses, no more Robert’s, no more Commision, no more saving the world’s; you’re _okay._ You just have to let yourself be, too!”

“And what makes you think that I’m not?” Five glares hard at his brother. “You don’t think that I’m trying? That I try every _fucking_ day? That I’m so up in my own goddamn head because that’s where I’ve always ever been? I’ve only got myself, Klaus! That’s all I’ve ever had!”

“You have _us!_ ” Klaus cries, exasperated. “Jesus take the wheel, Five, you have us!”

“Do I?” Five snarls, and it’s menacing and taunting and downright _cruel._

Klaus stares at him for a minute, almost in disbelief. “Yeah, Five, actually. You do. And deep down, I know you _know_ you do. We—fuck. _Fuck.”_

Klaus runs his hands through his hair, sighing heavily through his nose. Then he runs his fingers down his face, before resting his chin on his palm. He watches Five for a moment, studying him before his eyes soften suddenly, their intensity loosening into something simpler.

“We love you, you know?” He murmurs. “ _I_ love you. So damn much.”

Five slowly puts his cookie back on his plate, fingers twitching as he fidgets in his spot. His eyes dart from the wall to Klaus’ face, where he looks hesitantly at him. “. . . I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Klaus mutters, leaning over to haul Five closer to him. He pulls his brother by his arms almost right into his lap, cupping his head to press it lightly against his chest, a hold firm enough to support without taking away his option of pulling away. “You don’t. Not enough.”

Five freezes in his grasp. “Um.”

“I love you,” Klaus whispers, this time, rubbing his hand up and down Five’s back. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Okay, Fives? So, _so_ much. I missed you for seventeen years and then for four more, and then another one after that. You matter. You’re important. To me, to the others. I’m sick of losing you and—I’m glad you’re here. I’m—you know,” he laughs a little bit and it sounds suspiciously wet through all the truth. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. None of us are. You’re not allowed to disappear on us ever again.” His grip tightens. “You’re with us, here, now, to stay. Forever.”

“And ever and ever,” Five mumbles, and before _he_ knows it, he’s crying again. His bitterness melts away, the seethe in his heart mellowing into gathered clumps of warmth, alive and animated from his core right to the outers of his eyes.

It’s only another second before his arms are encircling around Klaus, reciprocating the hug with just as much earnest. He shoves his face right into that sun-gold chest, listening to the gentle thrums of heartbeat. _Thump, thump, thump_.

“I love you too, dumbass,” he chokes out.

And Klaus holds him and lets him have his cry. He’s seen his brother cry before, he has, but that doesn't make holding his shaking shoulders any less gutting. Most things about Five these days are gutting.

Perhaps they always will be. 

His story is a tragedy, after all. Five was born a tragedy. This world would never be kind to him.

Perhaps it would never be kind to any of them. It never has been, and for the world and its many forms Klaus has seen, each and every one has been cruel in it’s own malicious way, dirty and scathing in scatters of skimped skinning through muscle to bone, torturous no matter the timeline. 

But they haven’t seen the world, have they? Not all of it. Some, most, but there’s still good there. Possibly difficult to see, at times, but the stars don’t always shine, and they can’t always be seen, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t there. 

There’s still good left in the world, Klaus believes so. Maybe hidden right down to the darkest underground where it’s closely impossible to bear, but still _there_. Little, just only pieces, glimpses of glimmered dust mites and sunrays drifting through morning window, and fragments of silver-white drops at the beginning of snowfall, but handfuls of good is better than none at all, and the Hargreeves are no strangers to only snippets of something better.

Something better. There’s always something better. Even if it’s an eventually, it’s a slice of heaven worth the wait to get, more worth the wait to give. 

And it’s always out there somewhere. No matter how long the journey.

“I’m sorry for comparing you to a battlefield,” Klaus says, after a while. He scratches at the lows of Five’s back. “I didn’t mean that.”

Five arches slightly at the touch, before nuzzling further into Klaus’ neck, breathing deeply there. “It’s fine,” he sighs contentedly. “I don’t care.”

He’s quiet for another while before he speaks again. “You were on a battlefield before. How’d you find that?”

“Scary,” Klaus murmurs, grinding his teeth together where Five can feel his chin digging side-to-side at the top of his head. “I wasn’t made for that world. That life. I don’t think anybody is. Or, well, was. I dunno how you could be. It’s brutal.”

Five pulls back at that statement, leaning his spine against the coffee table as he tucks his knees to his chest. Klaus stays seated in front of him, eyes following his movements. “You were there for a long time.”

“I was.”

“Do you miss anyone?”

Klaus swallows. He scratches his cheek, folding his legs. “Yeah,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I, uh, I lost someone.”

Five doesn’t do anything for a second, before he silently hands Klaus a puzzle piece and gestures for him to play with him. After a moment of settling a few pieces into place, he inches just the slightest bit closer to his brother. He touches his wrist.

“Tell me about them.”

  
  


—

  
  
  


The nightmares fade, a bit. They’re still a sometimes thing, but hardly a regular occurance. Five is grateful for their ease. 

He starts to eat with his siblings. It’s difficult, at first. Allison sets a plate of eggs in front of him and he almost hurls it across the room, but he stays rooted to his seat and listens to them talk. It’s a big step, for him, and he’s glad it doesn’t go unappreciated. His siblings squeeze his arms and scratch at his hair and listen every time he speaks and it feels nice.

Really nice.

And he likes nice things.

He’d forgotten just how much he does.

  
  


—

  
  


The anger has yet to go. Five’s not sure if it ever will.

It’s hot inside of him, buried deep down to a place he can’t dig, shovel stuck plunged into his heart where it ceases to exist. The anger doesn’t start from there—it simmers elsewhere, all over. There is no stem, no root, no definite source. It’s a presence throughout his body, obvious and defined and exhaustively exuberant. 

It’s loud, louder than him. Louder than the rational part of him. Louder than most parts of him. And, well, he’s so small that it just . . . effortlessly takes over. Takes charge of anything and everything, flashes of red-hot surges of fired-up fury from double flamed seeds planted in his veins, left only to grow.

And there’s lots of him that’s still left to grow. A lot of him that never really had the chance to. 

He has that chance now, he supposes. He has time, now, and five brilliant siblings willing to do whatever it takes to get him where he needs to be.

Gosh. They are brilliant. Five loves them so.

And he forgets it often. The anger makes him forget. When he’s screaming and throwing things and lashing out to anyone and everyone, hot tears blurring what little is left of his sight, blinded by a place of so long ago, he forgets. 

He forgets who they are, what they are, what they have done for him. What he’s done for them. They become people in a place and he becomes a stranger to himself, and everything turns horribly scary as the walls around him crumble in their overpowering illusion, haunting him in their cruelest form.

It’s a bad thing. One of many that he absolutely detests. 

“Five,” Diego is saying, holding his hands up in surrender. It’s a stupid reaction—Five isn’t going to hit _him._ He’s hitting everything else and kicking at the walls and a frame is smashed somewhere there, but he’d never lay a hand on his brother.

“Five, _breathe_. You’re not breathing.”

“I’m breathing _fine,_ ” Five wheezes out, a slurry of tears scalding his face. He wants to tear apart everything in sight. “Don’t make me say it again. Fuck _off_ Diego!”

“Five, you need to calm down,” Diego stays patient with him, still keeping his hands steady in front of him. His eyes don’t leave Five’s, searching for clarity and whatever sense is left. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“ _Nothing_ about this is okay!” Five screeches, hands coming up either side of him to tug harshly at his hair. “Can’t you see that, you _moron_? Nothing! _Fucking_ nothing!”

“Five—”

“Don’t ‘Five’ me,” Five snarls, and there’s that sinister glint in his eyes, a glaze-over blocking out the morality behind them. “You know _nothing._ Hear that? Absolutely nothing. You’re all _useless_!”

With that, he picks up another empty beer glass at the bar and hurls it across the room. It smashes into tiny segments on the carpet, a bitch to clean up, and he doesn’t care. Diego doesn’t flinch, neither does he, and the silence corrupts as Five turns to reach for something else.

“Five!” Diego is quick, now, somehow quicker than him, appearing behind him and latching onto his wrist. “Stop! Christ, stop!”

Five keeps screaming, roaring manically in his grip. He twists and struggles as if the world is ending again tomorrow, putting up a fight without any real intention behind it. He screeches involuntarily as Diego pulls him back and holds where he’s trying to rip out of his grasp.

“ _Five!_ ” Diego grits out, avoiding Five’s fists coming for him as he holds both those bony wrists. “Five, Five, _fuck,_ stop it!”

“Let _go_ ,” Five howls, and he’s crying a little bit harder now. He’s always fucking crying. “Let go of me!”

His knees buckle from under him and he stumbles forward and almost knocks himself to the ground, Diego’s clasp on him serving its second purpose of keeping him up. It hurts, a little, it burns his wrists, but it supports him and stops his body scattering across the floor. He feels noodle-like and weak, and he just keeps screaming.

“Five,” Diego doesn’t stop calling him, reaching into the part of him that’s actually sane. “Five, _listen_ to me. I need you to calm down, alright? I know you’re angry, I know, I _know_ , I hear you, okay? I’m listening. I know you’re struggling, and you’re scared and confused and frustrated with everything, but you have got to _chill_ _out_. Alright? Can you do that, for me?”

Five doesn’t stop squirming frantically in his grip, but his shouts mellow down. He stops his shrieking and bites at Diego’s fingers, instead. “I said get _off!_ ”

“Ow—Five! _Shit_ —”

“ _Gerroff,_ ” Five muffles a shout over where his teeth are now clamped over Diego’s arm. It’s not light, and he sinks them in hard, merciless.

“Son of a _bitch_ —” Diego hisses, forcefully pulling his arm from Five’s mouth from where he’d tried to be gentle. “Let _go,_ Five.”

“No, _you_ let go!”

Diego loosens his grip, just slightly. He manages to settle himself and then waits for Five to calm down, trying to rub gently into his arms. Five fights for a little longer before he gives in, panting heavily and dropping his head.

It’s sanity rejoicing. Diego knows Five could snap his neck if he damn well wanted to. But, no, Five wants all of this to be over—he wants this fit of rage to end as much as the next person. And things always get dangerous when they spiral out of his control.

“You good?” Diego breathes heavily, after a moment of both of them collecting themselves. Sweat drips in steady beads down his forehead as he remains holding onto Five. He doesn’t trust him just yet.

Five shuts his eyes, and he’s still crying horribly. His face is screwed up in crumbled folds as the tears fall in a salted sequence, sour and boiling on his cheeks where there’s still baby-fat he has yet to grow out of.

Diego slowly kneels in front of him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Five doesn’t. He looks elsewhere, very small hiccups thundering up his throat. “It’s not _fair,”_ he whispers, before closing his eyes again. He fists at them, rubbing hard almost in essence of quieting his tears.

“I know,” Diego murmurs, daring to fiddle with a strand of his hair flopping onto his forehead. “God, kid, I know.”

“I’m so _angry_ ,” Five’s knees shake slightly in his stand before his brother. Diego gently coaxes him to sit down, poorly on the floor, but it stops the trembling. “Why is the world so _mean?_ ”

He sounds broken as he says it, and looks it too, scrubbing at his eyes and sniffling back sobs curling at the dams of his mouth. His hair is roughed on his head, knotty and tangly in its swept across nest, and his cheeks are flushed in blotchy reds all down to his neck.

He’s never looked more like a child. A hurt, vulnerable, broken child. 

And the world is cruel. Horrendously cruel.

“I wish I knew,” Diego tells him. He sets a hand atop Five’s head. “I wish I knew.”

“Terrible things keep happening to me and there’s never any _reasons_ ,” Five cries out, hiding his face in his hands. He’s mortified, like this. It’s never been in his nature to express himself this way despite its running theme lately. He’ll never get used to falling apart like this. Especially in front of his siblings.

“I know,” Diego murmurs to him, soothing. He scratches softly at the space behind Five’s ear, smiling when his brother subsequently leans into the touch.

“I don’t know what I’m meant to do,” Five whispers. “All I’ve ever done is survive. I don’t—I don’t know how to _live_ , Diego. I don’t know how to people and how to be and how to—how to _exist_. I don’t know who I am without trying to save something. I don’t know what my purpose is. What if all I’m meant to do is survive? What’s the point in anything else? It’s like the universe has just been telling me all I’m meant to do is fight but—I’m _tired_. I’m really, _really_ tired.”

His voice cracks, and his head dips forward slightly. He sounds devastated—he sounds _scared._

“You’re meant for more than that,” Diego murmurs. He sits himself fully on the floor, right behind Five, and pulls his brother quietly between his legs, back to chest. He rests his chin on Five’s shoulder, wrapping his arms slowly around his middle. “You’re meant for so much, Five. What you’ve been through—it doesn’t define you. You _know_ that. You said it, remember? ‘Dad messed us up, are we going to let that define us?’ Remember? A long time ago, maybe, but it still stands, yeah? You—there doesn’t always have to be a reason for you to exist. You’re allowed to take up space without contributing anything to it, you know. That’s okay. You don’t have to keep finding something to _fight_ for. You can breathe, now, Five. That’s all you have to do.”

Five turns his head, nose bumping off Diego’s temple. Leaning backwards, he presses his back right up against his brother's front and tucks his face under his jaw. That’s a personal favourite, of his. He likes to hide that way.

“I don’t know how,” he mumbles. “Everytime I try everything just gets so _loud_ and I keep _remembering_ everything I don’t want to remember. I just—I want it all to just go _away_.”

Diego hugs him harder. “I would take it all from you if I could.”

“But you can’t,” Five says, sadly. “You can’t.”

He grips the bottom of a bare foot, the other resting on Diego’s. His knees are pulled up to his chest again, in front of the arms around him. “I don’t even know what he wanted,” he mutters. “What he wanted with me. What he did with me. What all those tests were. And now he’s gone and killed himself and I’ll never know what he kept me there for.”

“I know, Five, I know. But—this isn’t forever,” Diego murmurs. “I know everything is tough shit right now and it’s a pain in the ass not knowing what the hell happened or _why_ the hell it happened, and you don’t have answers and you might never get them, but you won’t feel this way forever. I promise. I know you’ve lived a long life before, but this is the one you’re in now, and you get to start over. New beginnings, right? Because fuck Dad. Fuck Robert. Fuck everybody. All that matters is you, and that you’re home.”

“Jesus,” Five says, after a while. “When did everybody get good at all these stupid speeches?” He rolls his eyes through his tears, right into Diego’s neck. “It’s like you all became philosophers while I was gone, or some shit.”

“Maybe we did,” Diego gives his middle a little squeeze, encouraging his laughter. “Maybe we didn’t. We just want to help you, Five. And I think we’re—we’re finally getting somewhere. Baby steps.”

Five doesn’t say anything for a minute, breathing loudly under Diego’s jaw. “It’s hard.”

“I know,” Diego kisses the shell of his ear. “And I’m proud of you. You’re doing better than you think. Give yourself some credit, will you?”

“I just smashed eighteen glasses.”

“We all have bad days.”

Five grins at that, heart rate calmed and cheeks drying considerably. His eyes are swollen and ruddy and inflamed in red-puffs, but they’re brighter than before. He nestles firmly into Diego’s hold, adjusting himself to sit more comfortably as he twists to curl up into the warmth of the arms cradling him.

“Hey, hey, don’t get comfy,” Diego teases, fondly. “My ass is getting sore, here.”

“Don’t care.”

“Brat,” Diego breathes, suddenly overwhelmed with love for him.

He holds him closer, squeezing him hard. He holds him like he’ll never get the chance to again, and Five clings back with just as much vigor, tiny fingers clutching tight.

“Love you,” he mumbles. 

“Love you more,” Diego murmurs, and swallows down the stupid urge to cry.

Like he said. Baby steps.

  
  


—

  
  


Vanya's violin could be considered a weapon.

It’s a powerful thing. It holds the corruption of the universe in the hands of its possessor, the fingers of its player, the heart of its owner. It, like Vanya, is the smallest in it’s chordophone family, capable of the most whilst appearing the least. 

But as it plays now, the sounds of its singular orchestra illustrating notes from musical paper, Five can’t imagine how it’s anything other than what it is.

Beautiful. 

And had it always been this beautiful? 

Vanya rarely gets the chance to express herself through her instrument, and it’s one that speaks as loudly as her eyes once did—still do, really. They are as captivating as they always had been, cupfuls of green-blue sea orchestrating through sight, playing the kindest of symphonies like a classical band.

Five listens to her curled on the armchair of the living room. It’s his go-to place, these days. He reckons it’s the fireplace and its ability to make him feel warm and safe, but that’s a thought he’d never say out loud.

It’s dark out, the house is lit with candles and old oil lamps as the faint black clouds race across the outside. The stars already glow as if they’ve kept a pocket of daytime to flicker all through the night sky, sparkling and brilliant in their presence.

He’s in pyjamas, typically, hot chocolate in one hand and notebook in the other, tucked away safely beside the cracklings of the fire.

He’s not writing anything. He stares unapologetically at his sister, under the false impression that she doesn’t mind his eyes so focused on her. He tends to look more intense than he feels, and his gaze can often be a bit . . . much. 

He realises he’s mistaken when she glances over and startles at his eyes boring into her. “Shit,” she breathes. “Sorry, Five. Am I distracting you?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says. He flips his notebook to face her and shows her the empty pages. “Got nothing to write. Nothing to think. I’m just listening.”

“Okay,” Vanya shoots him a small smile, dropping her bow onto the sofa. “What do you think so far?”

“Of your playing?” Five tilts his head quizzically at her. 

“Yeah. As in, do you like it? Will I play something else?”

“You want to know what _I_ think?” Five asks again, searching for confirmation. When she nods, he cocks a brow. “What does that matter?”

“Well, technically you’re my audience,” Vanya winks at him. “It’s important you like what you’re listening to.”

“People pay to watch people like you. I didn’t pay. I’m just here.”

“Five,” Vanya rolls her eyes, admittedly unable to keep the fond smile off her face. “Just answer the question.”

Five chews his lip. He leans forward a bit, taking a sip of his cocoa and peering at her over the mug. “I like it.”

“Yeah? You do?”

“I don’t know what song it is,” he says. “But I liked it. It’s—you know. Relaxing.”

“Nice background sound,” Vanya agrees. 

“Not really,” Five says, surprising her. “It’s too good to be put off focus and to substitute white noise. If you want to be listening to something good, you’d wanna be listening. Not half paying attention to raw talent. You get me?”

Vanya draws her violin closer to herself, eyes flickering down before they meet his face again. “Thanks, Five.”

He shrugs, fishing out marshmallows with his fingers. “Just the truth.”

Vanya watches him curiously, as he dips his hands in and out of his mug without a second thought. Lumps of powder that hadn’t mixed well comes back out layered on his fingers, and she can’t help the urge to want to clean it up.

“You know,” she says, after a while of studying him. “You have terrible table manners.”

“Table manners don’t matter in the apocalypse,” Five says, bluntly. He continues to scrape at his drink. “Nor did they in the basement.”

Vanya takes her time to answer that, careful in her response as not to say the wrong thing and upset him. “Maybe not. But don’t you think—no,” she shakes her head, picking up her bow. “Nevermind.”

“No, what were you going to say?” Five persists. “Tell me.”

Vanya hesitates, adjusting her violin in her grip. “It really doesn’t matter Five.”

“Tell me!”

“Five,” Vanya sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “I was just . . . thinking you should think about, I don’t know, doing things properly—but it really, really doesn’t matter.”

“It does if everybody keeps bringing it up,” Five scowls, crossing his arms. “Don’t think you’re the first to say this to me, Vanya.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“Well, everybody has. Even Klaus, for fuck’s sake.”

“And have you taken anything they said into consideration?”

“No.”

Vanya loosens her grip on her instrument, dropping it again back onto the sofa with another deep sigh. “ _Five_.”

“What?” Five curls in further to the armchair. “You said yourself. It doesn’t matter.”

“They’re trying to help you,” she says, softly. “And I am too. It’s more than just table manners. It’s learning to live again; learning to live like this instead of how you did back then. You don’t have to eat the bare minimum or hide from us or scoop up the last bits of everything in case you’ll never get it again. Nothing is going anywhere. And neither are you.”

Five doesn’t look at her, tucking his head onto the armrest. “We don’t know that for sure.”

Vanya frowns slightly at that, setting her pieces down onto the coffee table before adjusting herself to sit closer to the edge of the sofa. “So that’s what this is about.”

“No,” Five mutters. “I’m just saying.”

“Well don’t just _say_ ,” Vanya says. “You’re here to stay. We’re not gonna lose you again.”

“You didn’t lose me the first time,” Five mumbles. “I did it myself. I put myself there. It was my fault.”

“You were a _kid,_ ” Vanya insists, hating the way he curls into himself even more. “Kids do things without thinking all the time. You just got so _unlucky_. And you didn’t deserve it. Not for a second.”

“Yes, I did,” Five snarls, and Vanya finally sees the root of him. “I chose to walk out and time travel when the old man told me not to—I chose to go against everything he ever told me because of my own _fucking_ arrogance. And I—“

He stops. He stares at her. His eyes are wide and exhausted, and he drops them as he pulls his knees from where they lay over the other armrest, up right to his chest, in a fetal position.

“I kissed _him_ once,” he mutters. “I chose that, too.”

Vanya doesn’t say anything for a moment, crestfallen as she watches his forlorn face. “. . . Oh.”

“I didn’t _want_ to,” Five hurries to correct himself. “I don’t—I don’t know why I did. I think—I think I just wanted to feel something.”

“That’s okay,” Vanya murmurs. “You’ve been through so much, Five. You can’t . . . you probably weren’t thinking straight.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” Five growls. “I never thought anything, ever.”

“You’ve been deprived of so much for so long,” Vanya stands up from the sofa and makes her way over to the armchair, sinking to sit beside it on the floor. “I don’t—I can’t blame you. I don’t think anybody could.”

“It was horrible,” Five sniffs. “I’m disgusting.”

“No you’re not,” Vanya is firm, now, harsher in her earnestness. “ _No_ , you’re not.”

Five looks at her. He doesn’t say anything.

“Stop _blaming_ yourself,” she pleads with him in incredible emphasis. “You’re eaten up by so much _guilt_ , Five, and that’s what’s holding you back.”

He still doesn’t say anything. Vanya keeps on talking.

“You don’t have to hold yourself accountable for everything that goes wrong in the world,” she murmurs. “Sometimes shitty things happen to people who don’t deserve it, and maybe some do, but a lot of them don’t. You didn’t, Five. Don’t think you owe us anything, or you owe it to the world to fix it when you didn’t cause what broke it in the first place.”

She smiles, a little bit, a playfulness in her eyes as she says her next statement. “ _I_ blew up the moon, remember? Not you.”

His lips quirk upwards slightly. She takes it as a victory.

She smooths back the hair on his forehead—an action a lot of his siblings seem to do. Five isn’t sure if it’s meant to comfort him or them. 

It does both.

“You deserve _good_ things,” Vanya whispers. “Good and happy things. You deserve to feel safe. To feel loved. You don’t need to earn a place in the world by saving it. You’ve cared so much for so many years without anybody to care for you back, and you can let _go_ , now. You don’t have to worry anymore. You’ve taken care of us and now it’s our turn to take care of you. Please, Five. Let us in.”

Five pushes his head off the armrest, leaning into her hand. He sits up fully on the seat and reaches out to clasp a hand around her wrist. “I’m _trying._ ”

“I know,” she places a hand over his. “I know.”

She pulls him in, then. He rests his chin on her shoulder and worms his arms around her. “Can you play something else?”

“Yeah,” she rubs his back. “Yeah, I can.”

  
  


—

  
  


They find evidence.

It turns out Robert had journalised most of the events with Five, from beginning right to the very end. 

Chicken-scratch scribbles reveal the insides of his dark mind, exposing the horrors of what really happened during Five’s captivity.

Surprisingly, the tests he’d been running on Five had merely been out of pure interest. There’s no motive, no previous inclination, no other reasoning beyond curiosity. He’d been following the Hargreeves for weeks after their return to 2019, drawn immensely to Five and his power right off the go.

He isn’t shy in his writing about his appeal to Five’s appearance, either. It’s difficult to read, even harder to process, and downright impossible to finish his descriptions on him. More so, raping him.

Allison and Diego are the first to read through the little red notebook, flicking through the pages with disgust on their faces. They skim through most of the paragraphs of gross details, having no desire in the least to understand Robert’s obsession and attraction to Five.

However, the dynamic shifts the more they go on, a drastic change in Five’s behaviour somewhere in the middle months. Although from Robert’s perspective, and therefore probably entirely different from the actual situation, it tells more about Five than he’s said since he got back.

The entries start somewhere that’s more in Five’s lane, talking about his sharp wit and snarling tone, his pride and arrogance at the forefront from the get go. 

_He’s bratty. He’s all baby-faced and soft but my, that tongue is sharp. He’s a fast thinker. Something about him tells me he’s clever. You don’t have a mouth that quick without a big brain up there. He’ll settle soon._

It’s as the scrawls go on that they read about Five’s serious downplay during his time there. How much Robert really got inside his head, and how truly _twisted_ he was.

 _He’s meeker now,_ it describes, somewhere dated in July. _Compliant. Submissive. He does what I say with no argument. He’s been crying a lot and shown remarkable deterrence in my presence. He won’t ask for anything anymore. He does as he’s told._

_He’s so beautiful._

Diego grunts at that, fingers clenching on one of his knives. “That sick _bastard_.”

It carries on. _He’s a wonderful thing. Every part of him I want to devour. I want him to be all mine. There’s still only a bit of cheek but that can slide for now. His prettiness makes up for it. As does his performance._

“ _Performance_?” Diego narrows his eyes. “The fuck does he mean, performance?”

“I think he’s talking about the assault,” Allison whispers. She wants to rip the words right from the page as if that could control and erase what really happened. 

“You don’t think—” Diego starts. He fidgets uncomfortably. “He had him—you know.”

“No,” Allison says. “Five said so during the kit. They asked if—if he was penetrated orally. He said no.”

“He could have lied about it.”

“Why would he lie when he talked about everything else?” Allison turns to him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nothing about Five makes sense,” Diego grumbles, flicking over the page. And, well, Allison can’t argue with that.

_His powers are deteriorating. I suppose it's malnutrition, as I haven’t interfered with them in any way. Shame, but I want to keep him small._

_The collar is working. He hates it. It stops him from trying to teleport. He’ll do anything I ask when I put it on him. It looks pretty around his neck. Like an ornament. He is such a doll._

“ _Collar?_ ” Diego roars, incredulously. “What _fucking_ collar?”

“I don’t know,” Allison murmurs, squeezing her eyes shut. “He never said anything about a collar.”

The difficulty of reading increases as they proceed onwards, the words getting harsher and details getting uglier. It’s downright inhumane, some of this stuff, and gut-wrenching to read.

_He looks good under me. He falls apart very quickly, and he makes the most obscene noises. He takes it well, better than he did, and only lies there still when I fuck him nice and hard—_

Allison grabs the notebook and flings it across the room—mere seconds before Diego had been about to do the same.

“That disgusting _rat_ ,” she spits, nostrils flaring in rage. Her voice trembles as she speaks. “How _dare_ _he_.”

Diego can’t bring himself to speak a sentence. His mouth opens and closes, eyes twitching in aggravation. His hands tighten around his knife. Christ, is he _pissed._

Allison leans over the kitchen table, bowing her head as she closes her eyes. “God, I feel sick.”

“Monster,” Diego growls, shaking in rage. “ _Monster._ ”

Klaus makes an appearance, then, timing ever so brilliant, sauntering into the kitchen with a towel over his shoulders and a yoghurt in his hands. “What’s up guys—whoa, hey, what’s wrong?”

He dumps the yoghurt into the bin, spoon in mouth before he throws that into the sink. He turns back to Allison, eyes softened in instant sympathy. “What’s going on?”

“Notebook,” Diego grits out, gripping the edge of the countertop with fury. Klaus stares at the two of them back and forth for a moment, before his eyes catch into the red hardcover sprawled across the floor.

“Careful,” Allison chokes out, when he picks it up to read. Klaus gives her a sideways glance, and opens it up.

“Oh,” is all he says, when finished. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Diego mutters. “It’s sick.”

Klaus is silent for a moment. His mouth twitches as he flickers through the pages. “What do we do with this?” He asks, quietly.

“I say we burn it,” Diego says, glaring at it. “Fuck that. Get rid of it.”

“Should we let Five see it?” Allison says, then. She looks uncharacteristically unsure of herself, chewing at her nail. “Would he want to?”

“Is that a good idea?” Klaus winces. “I wouldn’t want to read what my kidnapper said about me. Especially all that.”

“Maybe we tell him we have it and let him see what he has to say?” Allison suggests.

“Or, we don’t tell him shit, throw it in the fire and _move_ _on_ ,” Diego hisses.

“He has a right to know, Diego!”

“He doesn’t need to know _shit!”_

“Who doesn’t need to know what?” Says Five, appearing in the doorway and startling all three of them. 

Awkward silence sails around the room, inkling between bodies like a hooked fish caught up onshore, strangling in its stranding.

“Well?” Five prompts, narrowing his eyes when his siblings fail to answer him. “Are you gonna answer me or stare at me like I’ve grown a foot out of my ass all day long?”

Klaus, despite his devastation, snorts at the comment. He catches Five’s eye and shakes his head at him. “There’s our Five,” he says, softly.

And there’s something quite sad in that sentence, a tender dismal in reminiscence of what once was. 

Wistful longing for the days before, back when things were impossibly simpler. Somehow, even with the mornings they dreaded and the nights they didn’t, it was all they ever knew. The world wasn’t so big and scary, back then. It was cruel, of course, they’d known that from very young, but bank robbers and classic touché villains are nothing on what the world really has to offer.

And Five has seen it all. The end of everything. That innocence and naivety was stripped of him when he was practically still in baby years, on the brink of teenage hood where the biggest worries were supposed to be pimples and messy first kisses and getting up to no-goods in Griddys, just like they always did.

And maybe they didn’t have it easy, maybe they deserved better, but Lord, was the world kind then compared to what it is now. How young, they had been. How little they had known. Perhaps it’s better, sometimes, to not know.

Klaus wishes desperately that he could take away the worst of Five’s life, maybe all of it, and take him through a world that didn’t gut him raw inside and out. 

He wishes desperately a lot of things for Five.

Diego crosses his arms and refuses to look at any of them, and Allison’s gaze gives away when her eyes fall upon the notebook still clutched tightly in Klaus’ hands. 

“Do you recognise that?” She asks him, slowly, when Five’s eyes follow hers. “Have you ever seen that before?”

Klaus, beneath both of their stares, hesitantly holds out the book to him. “It’s—”

“Robert’s,” Five finishes. His eyes harden considerably, landing on the red hardback. 

He looks at it for all of two seconds before his mouth sets in a straight line. “Burn it.”

Diego looks at Allison, a smugness on his face as if to say _told you so._

“If that’s what you want,” Allison says, when nobody speaks up. “The police have more copies for evidence. Proof that you were there.”

“ _Proof?_ ” Five almost laughs. “Proof? They want more proof? The guys offed himself, for fucks sake. What’s the point?”

“In case he hurt anybody else?” Allison gingerly takes the book out of Klaus’ hands. “And, well, justice, Five. You never got a court case, never got to testify in trial. He might be dead, but he never suffered for what he did.”

“He’s a coward,” Five says. “Fuck him.”

And it’s said so strongly with such certainty, the siblings are sort of taken aback. It’s a rare thing Five talks badly about his captor, like the fear is buried within him as if he’s still trapped there; like Robert is around any corner, ready to come and take him again.

“Yeah,” Klaus says, suddenly. “Fuck him!”

Five looks up, surprised. 

“Fuck him!” Klaus repeats, braver as sizzled anger surges through his bones. “ _Fuck_ him, man! Fuck that guy! What a loser!”

“Damn right he is,” Diego joins in, from where he’s standing behind the bar, pouring drinks. “What a piece of _shit_ , Christ.”

“God, what a freak,” Allison contributes to the berating, loudly. “ _Fuck_. _Him_.”

Slowly, a grin spreads across Five’s face.

“What a _weasel_ ,” Diego adds, watching Five’s cheeks dimple. “I never thought I’d see the day where we knew a bigger asshole than Dad, but guess I was wrong.”

“You were definitely wrong,” Klaus agrees, nodding. “What _total_ dickheads.”

“Man, I would uppercut that guy _so fast_ if he wasn’t dead,” Diego seethes, clenching his fingers.

“Shame,” Klaus says, placing his hands on his hips. “He deserved to die _dirty_. Fuck that jerk!”

“And every other asshole that’s wronged us!” Allison says, her own enragement tumbling out of her mouth. “Fuck _everybody!_ ”

“Hell yeah!” Diego shouts, slamming his drink on the counter.

The others pile over and take the glasses poured for them, all four soon sinking to the ground in a clumsy heap as they make a toast.

“To new beginnings,” Allison proposes, holding her drink up. “Because screw everything else.”

“I’ll cheer to that,” Klaus grins, clinking his drink against hers. 

Diego rolls his eyes. “I’ll say.”

And Five’s almost certain that his drink has no alcohol in it, and he’s almost certain that things don’t have to be so dark anymore, just like he’s certain that his siblings are here, with him, and he loves them and they love him back.

He slowly raises his glass. “To new beginnings,” he repeats, softly.

The four of them cheer, and Five can’t stop smiling.

  
  


—

  
  


They decide to take him to the beach.

And, well, Five’s never been to a beach before.

He’s never truly seen the sea. He’s always wanted to, selfishly, but the opportunity never rose and he’d begun to think it was a place too good to be true. A figment of his imagination; perhaps like most things had been, before.

So they plan a family day trip. They pack sandwiches and flasks and fruit baskets and checkered blankets, swimsuits and goggles and sunscreen and sunglasses. 

Then they pile into Vanya's car and drive to a whole new world.

They fight over music stations and road trip games, Allison threatens to rumour everybody if they don’t shut up and Luther has to pull over three times because Klaus has to pee, but the ride is sort of stupidly fun and Five smiles quietly to himself for the majority of it.

And then they get there, and it’s really, really beautiful.

The car is parked on an uphill by the steps down onto the pathway to the sand haven. Stretched out on the long side, the bluewater glistens under the primrose sun, beaming down in steady rays across the bronzed grains, hue gentle on the eye.

The sun beats down on their backs as they parade through the beach, each carrying essentials to set out for the day. Klaus carries his socks and shoes in one hand and skips along as his feet burn against the scalds of sand, squealing the entire time.

Luther unfolds the blanket evenly on a shaded spot that doesn’t blister beneath the sun, big enough for all of them to sit. Clustered rocks and seashells scatter around them, alongside the wet sand surrendering to the bubbling sea.

It’s a day for dreaming, Five thinks. For allowing time to move fast, to move slow. 

Whatever pace it wants.

They set up their little picnic, unpacking sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil and containers of fruits and cold water kept in an ice cooler. Little desserts and cookie packets pile onto plates and strawberry smoothie cartons appear somewhere too, along with tiny tea cakes and chocolate puddings and tinsy tangerines. 

The whole thing is a mouthful of heaven, and the six of them dig in as soon as they settle in peace. The beach is practically empty, besides them, a pleasant surprise on such a gorgeous day.

Five nibbles quietly at his sandwich as his siblings engage in conversation, only paying half attention as he stares longingly at the sea. 

He tunes out Diego shoving Klaus and Klaus shoving back as he wonders what it’s like to swim in the ocean. Does it feel like how it looks? Do the waves crashing over the edge of seashore slap playfully at skinny limbs braving threading into its bone-chilling bed? Does the spreaded foamy waterfront tickle at innocent feet wading into the unknown?

There can only be one way to find out.

“I want to go in,” Five announces, over the chatter of his family. 

Vanya gives him a thumbs up, munching around an apple. “Go for it!”

“Finish your plate first,” Allison says, pointing to the half eaten sandwich and raspberries in his lap. “Then you have to wait a while for it to digest before you do. And one of us will go with you. Well, unless, you know how to swim.”

“I don’t,” Five says.

“Well then,” Allison smirks. “Eat up.”

Five grumbles under his breath, rolling his eyes, but does as she asks nonetheless. He eats fast, cross-legged and gripping his food with both hands. His knees bounce up and down with anticipation, eager to let himself go, to just _run._

He gobbles it down faster than everyone else, itchy in his impatience as he sprawls out flat on the shady sand, waiting for someone to finish and join him with an arm behind his head and legs crossed over one another.

He grabs a handful and watches with fascination as it trickles through his fingers, slithering down his hand and back to its origin. He does it again, and again, and again, loving the way it feels. It’s new. Different. And kind of very lovely.

He feels a gentle tug on his hair and tilts his head backwards to see Diego grinning at him. “You ready, old man?”

“You bet.” Five scrambles to a stand, t-shirt flowing in the gentle breeze. It’s one of Luther’s old ones, much too large and lengthy but comforting all the same, so Five had snatched it long ago and is glad to be wearing it now. It nearly covers the entirety of the orange swim shorts, but it does the job.

“Race you!” Diego blurts, suddenly breaking into a sprint and taking off for the sea. Five fumbles after him, standing there spluttering in shock before racing right after him.

His heart leaps to his throat as he runs against the winds, legs stretching as far as they can go and spirit soaring free, grinning and screeching in joy as he chases his brother.

“Diego!” He calls, laughter bubbling through his lips. “ _Diego!”_

“Come on, slow poke!” Diego calls back, hard to hear from the distance. He’s already slinking into the sea, diving in without any hesitancy and disappearing beneath the underworld.

“Hang on!” Five yells, before his heart stutters and his eyes flash and he jams on his breaks and comes to a sudden stop.

 _Shit,_ he thinks. _Shit._

He comes to the conclusion that the ocean is _scary._

“Jesus,” he breathes, backing away slightly. 

He stares at it for a minute or two before Diego submerges from it, soaked like a salty drowned rat and gesturing at him to come in. “What are you waiting for? Come on!”

“I can’t!” Five shouts, panic rising up his neck. “I can’t!”

Diego looks like he’s about to say something else, before he catches the expression on his face. Then, his eyes soften and he slowly makes his way out, shaking himself off like a wet dog as the sand sticks to his feet on his way to Five’s rooted spot.

“Hey,” he says, holding out a hand. “I’ll walk with you, alright? Just dip your foot in.”

“Um,” Five says, taking another step back. “Um.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Diego says, kindly. “We don’t have to go far. Just touch it with your feet and see what you think, yeah?”

“Uh,” Five grips Diego’s hand like a lifeline. “Right.”

“That’s it,” Diego grins, encouraging, slowly leading him to the water. “It’s cool the way the tide washes up before it leaves again, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Five says, watching the rise of the tide just against his foot, close, but not close enough to touch.

“There, just one more step,” Diego keeps moving, guiding him along. He steps backwards into the sea, pulling Five with soft tugs at a steady pace. “Almost there.”

And then Five’s foot meets the water and he _shrieks._

“ _Fuck!_ ” He screeches, over Diego’s instant cackling. “ _Fuck_ it’s _cold!”_

“Well it’s not gonna be _warm,_ ” Diego yells back, between roars of laughter, doubled over as he watches Five flap around like a penguin as he screams. 

“You didn’t say it would be _this_ _fucking_ _cold_!” Five howls, jumping up and down to pull his feet away from the bitterness. He tries to run out, turning away to hop out onto the shore, but Diego grabs him and pulls him back, merciless as he whirls around and chucks Five right into the water.

It’s not deep, not at all, not enough to frighten him, but enough to drench him head to toe. He reappears seconds after being thrown, standing up and shrieking his head off.

“You _asshole!”_

Diego can’t even hear him over his hysteria.

“This isn’t _funny!_ ” Five shouts, but he’s finding it very difficult to bite back a grin. “I _trusted_ you!”

“Your mistake!” Diego says back, still loudly laughing at him. 

“I’ll get you back for this,” Five threatens, splashing the knee-level water at him. “You’re gonna pay, Number Two.”

“Am I, Number Five?” Diego smirks, making a move to chase him again.

Five turns and sprints without a second thought, screaming in laughter as he feels his brother come up behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle and spinning him around and around.

He’s dropped back in as quickly as he was lifted, and he doesn’t hold back his joy as he kicks his legs through the water, running in farther, deeper, whatever fear felt before completely vanished.

“I think I really like the sea!” He declares, turning around to his brother, legs splashing through the salty-blue. Diego smiles warmly at him, watching him play.

“I’m gonna head back and get the others,” he says, over Five’s splashing. “You’ll be okay on your own?”

“Just fine!” Five tells him, reaching down to trail his fingers through the water, barely looking at him. He’s entirely entranced by the movement around him, settled comfortably in something that was so scary only moments ago.

Diego leaves him be, jogging onto shore and back over to the others. Five hardly notices as he continues to wade along, wishing for a minute that he had Diego’s power to hold his breath indefinitely—he wants to dive beneath the current and allow himself to be swallowed by the sea.

But, he doesn’t have Diego’s powers, and he doesn’t know fuck all about swimming, so he keeps to his simple paddling as he listens to the natured harmonies around him.

He walks through the water until he’s far down the longside of beach, jumping over the occasional mini wave and getting sprayed by the sea. He doesn’t realise how far he’s gone until he turns and sees that his siblings are simply tiny blobs in the distance. 

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs, looking around. He lifts both of his arms to wave in the air, in hopes of reassurance that they haven’t lost sight of him, and feels his stomach cool in relief when he sees the outline of Luther waving right back.

He shouts something over, but Five can’t even hope in trying to make out what he’s said. The rest of his siblings join in, jumping up and down and shrieking at him, and Five guesses they’re calling for him to get back. 

“I’m coming!” He cups his hands over his mouth to send his message further, though he doubts they’ve heard him, and slowly starts walking back towards where he came from.

They keep calling—they’re so far away, and Five really isn’t bothered with walking the entire way to their blurry forms. His legs are exhausted from ripping through the sea and he’s in no mood for the long journey back.

So he stops. He feels the gentle thrushes of wave clashing against the back of his knees, the tickles of seaweed slithering at his feet, the saltwater licking his legs. He looks at his siblings.

He looks at his hands.

 _You can do this,_ a familiar voice kinder than what had been whispers in his ear. _I know you can, Five._

Five shuts his eyes. _Dolores._

“What if I can’t?” He says aloud, clouds of self-doubt puffing in his stomach. Unsurety settles within his bones, picking away at the strength built there. He curls his hands into fists and waits.

_You know you can. You can do anything. You’re not there anymore._

“I’ve missed you,” Five cries out suddenly, in a strangled sound as eyes burn heavily. “I’ve really missed you, Dolores.”

 _Me too,_ she says, ever so sweet, like she always had been. _Now go, my love. Jump._

He studies his hands. Then, he breathes in deeply through his nose, listening and listening and listening. 

_I can do anything._

And with that last thought, he breathes out, envelops his hands in electric blue, rips cleverly through the fabrics of space and time, and does what he was born to do.

He jumps.

  
  


—

  
  


He falls when he lands on the beach.

He gasps as he does, collapsing onto the sand with a heart thumping so loudly in his chest it suffocates his eardrums.

He looks up, and his siblings are staring at him in shock.

“Hi?” He says, smiling weakly.

Then, almost as if on cue the five of them break into huge grins, Klaus on an instant to leap up, race over to him, and pull him in a hug. “You did it! You did it!”

“I guess I did.”

“Holy shit, Five,” Vanya breathes, joining Klaus in hugging him. “Oh my god.”

Five grins at her, radiating in his newfound victory. His heart soars in his chest, his limbs tingling with rich thrums of bliss that light up his insides. There’s a feeling of contentment deep in his soul that swirls in the unique recipe of colours that are made of him, bright and bold and brilliantly beautiful.

And his siblings scramble over themselves and barrel him in a group hug, and he is squashed under their grasps and he doesn’t know whose arm is around him or what is where, but he feels a glow in his chest and he closes his eyes and savours the moment.

“How?” Luther asks, as soon as they pull away. He bends down to Five’s level, gripping his shoulders with a proud smile on his face. “What made you . . . ?”

Five turns to glance back at the sea, a faraway fondness in his eyes difficult to define. He looks at his siblings, their awaiting faces, and smirks knowingly to himself.

“Just an old friend of mine,” he says, smiling, and Luther smiles back.

It’s only moments before he’s tackled in yet another hug, that quickly turns into a roughhousing war, scrambling with his brothers all over the sand and getting thrown recklessly from one place to the other. 

Klaus tickles his underarms and Diego is ruthless in his attacks, rolling around with Five as they gasp with breathless laughter in their equal desires to win. Luther is kinder and softens his strength, and only really goes for Five to pick him up and toss him in the air.

And so, Five laughs.

He laughs for a long, long time.

  
  


—

  
  


Perhaps Five had never been looking for happiness.

Survival, freedom, to succeed in saving the world and everyone else thereafter.

But never happiness.

And how lovely, it is, under the red-hot sun glazing the skies, and the same sugary stars sailing the nights, that he’s somehow managed to find it?

And he had never known that he could feel this way.

But as he sits here, listening to the echoed laughter of the loves that are his home, he hopes with all his heart, that he feels this way forever.

  
  


—

  
  


And so, Diego had been right. Five supposes they all have been right, in their own ways.

He does get a second chance. At this life, at being, at existing. It was taken from him the first time around, snatched from his grasp before he could reach for it, but the choice belongs to him, now.

It’s in his hands. And it’s up to him what to do with it.

Because the world is his.

And he is home at last.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @hargreef


End file.
